


Eight Little Candles

by Pargoletta



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Antisemitism, Bigotry & Prejudice, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Hanukkah, Jewish Bucky Barnes, Jewish Holidays, Jewish Steve Rogers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-14 01:44:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: Through the years of Steve’s life, the season of light and miracles comes around again and again.  Steve kindles the lights of Hanukkah with friends, colleagues, family, and loved ones at his side.





	1. The First Candle:  December 7, 1928

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, happy Hanukkah, and welcome to this story! As it happens, it’s not so much “a story” as it is a collection of stories. One for each night of Hanukkah, appearing at various points throughout Steve’s lifetime. Each date given corresponds to that particular night of Hanukkah for that particular year. Because there are so many characters and situations, I might not tag absolutely everything that could be tagged, but I’ll try to hit the major highlights. Enjoy!

  1. **The First Candle: December 7, 1928**



 

The midday bell rang, and Miss Norrington gave what could only be a sigh of relief. “You may eat your lunches, children,” she said, “and in half an hour, you may go out in the yard for recess. I’ll help you wrap up. It’s cold outside.” 

The twenty-five members of the fourth grade class at P.S. 8 slammed their spelling books shut and reached under their seats for their lunch pails. Steve and Bucky immediately pooled all of their food on their shared desk. Steve had a pickle, two slices of dark rye bread, a hard-boiled egg, and a Bit-O-Honey bar. Bucky produced two sausages wrapped in soft white bread, a cookie, and a little jar of sauerkraut. “Let’s share the pickle and the cookie,” Steve suggested. 

Bucky nodded. “And I’ll trade you one of my sausages.” 

“Want my egg?” 

“Okay.” 

Arnie Roth turned around in his seat. He was already chewing on a sandwich. “What do you think of Miss Norrington?” he asked. “She’s been here a whole week already.” 

Bucky bit off the end of a sausage. “She’s real strict. Miss Levitsky wasn’t half so strict.” 

“I think she’s scared,” Steve said. “She looks like a mouse when you open the cupboard real fast and you catch it eating something.” 

“Huh,” Bucky said. “I don’t see why she’s so scared. She’s the teacher. What’s she got to be scared of?” 

Arnie shrugged. “The principal, maybe?” 

All three boys nodded. The principal, Mr. Koller, was a tall, thin man appointed by the Board of Education, who occasionally walked the halls of P.S. 8, peering in at classrooms to make sure that students were quiet and paying attention. To be sent to his office was a formidable threat, although Hershy Milgram had been sent twice, and reported that all Mr. Koller did was to talk about his Permanent Record. Still, it seemed reasonable that Miss Norrington did not yet know that, and might be nervous in a school run by Mr. Koller. 

Rose Klein brought a jar of rice soup from where it had been warming on the heater, and came to sit with the three boys. Steve thought she might be sweet on Arnie, since this was not the first time she had come to sit with them. “Hetty Silber just told me that Miss Levitsky isn’t coming back,” she said. 

All three boys stopped eating. “Why?” Steve asked. “I thought she was out sick, and Miss Norrington was just substituting.” 

Rose shook her head. “Hetty’s ma was talking to Mrs. Dembitzer, who lives across the hall from them, and Mrs. Dembitzer said that Miss Levitsky had been picked up by the police marching around at night.” 

“What was Miss Levitsky doing out at night?” Bucky asked. 

“Bet it was that union rally,” Steve said. “The one my ma went to, when I stayed over at your place.” 

Rose looked important. “So Mrs. Dembitzer told Hetty’s ma that Miss Levitsky was arrested, and the Board of Education fired her, because teachers are supposed to be the epi – epit – epitome of moral rec . . . tude. Or something like that.” 

“They’re supposed to be good examples?” Arnie guessed. 

Rose nodded. The four children chewed their lunches and contemplated this news. Steve was puzzled to hear it, because his mother had told him that she was going to the rally because it was the right thing to do. Clearly, his mother had very different ideas of what was right than the Board of Education had. 

Bucky looked out at the window, where a thin lacing of frost lined the edges of the windowpanes. “It’s cold out today,” he said. He nudged Steve. “Bet there are some frozen puddles we could slide on, if you want.” 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know. My lungs were hurting when I came to school this morning.” 

Bucky glanced at Arnie, who looked at Rose. Rose thought for a moment. “I have a ball and some jacks in my coat pocket,” she said. “I was going to play with Hetty, but maybe Hetty could play with Josie today.” 

Bucky laughed. “Me and Steve are good at jacks,” he said. “We’re teaching my little sister Becca to play.”

“Betcha I’m better than either of them,” Arnie said, and Rose smiled.

 

  

By the time recess was over, Rose had beaten all three boys at jacks, and had even managed to cajole them into a few rounds of hopscotch. When they lined up to return to the classroom, they were all pink-cheeked enough to meet with Miss Norrington’s approval, even though Steve had only hopped through the grid once. Miss Norrington waited until the children were settled into their seats. Then she beamed at the whole class. “Well, children,” she said, “we’ve had a whole week together, so let’s celebrate with a special lesson for Friday afternoon. It’s December, and we all know what that means, don’t we?” 

“It’s winter?” Bucky suggested. 

Miss Norrington kept smiling, and ignored Bucky. “Christmas is coming!” she chirped. “I’m sure you’re all excited by that.” 

The children exchanged puzzled glances, but knew better than to say anything. Steve wasn’t stupid; he knew that Christmas was coming, because the newspapers had started to advertise the expensive new toys that Santa Claus would be bringing to the Polish and Italian and German kids who lived a few blocks away. He was sure that Miss Norrington had seen the same advertisements, so he couldn’t understand why she was so excited over the news. 

“Of course you know the Christmas story from Sunday school,” Miss Norrington went on, “but let’s take a moment to think about what Christmas means to all of us here in America. We come from all over the world, and we speak different languages, and we eat different foods, but we can all come together as one people to celebrate Christmas in our own ways. Let’s hear about all of our ideas about this lovely holiday. What does Christmas mean to your families?” 

The silence in the classroom quickly grew awkward, and Miss Norrington’s smile began to look a bit waxy. Steve thought furiously, but he couldn’t think of anything that he could tell Miss Norrington about Christmas. Finally, Bucky raised his hand. 

“Yes?” Miss Norrington asked, a little too brightly. “Bucky Barnes? What does Christmas mean to you?” 

“Er . . .” Bucky looked hopeful. “The shop windows are all decorated. Over on Atlantic Avenue. I like to take my sister to look at them sometimes.” 

Miss Norrington blinked, but smiled bravely. “Very good, Bucky. Anyone else? What does Christmas mean to you?” 

Hetty Silber raised her hand. “There’s a lot of organ music on the radio,” she said. “Sometimes we hear it when my mama is trying to get to _The High-Jinkers_.” 

That reminded Steve of something that he could say. He raised his hand and spoke even before Miss Norrington gave him permission. “You can get a really good seat at the movies on Christmas,” he said. “My ma and I saw _The Private Life Of Helen Of Troy_ , and we got the best seats.” 

Arnie didn’t even raise his hand. “My mama and tata took me and my brother all the way to Manhattan to eat Chinese buns at the Nom Wah Tea Parlor!” 

All attention was instantly on Arnie. Several people talked at once, all asking him what it had been like, and how it had been to travel into Manhattan, and what Chinatown looked like, and if the food was like food at home, and Hershy Milgram asked whether or not you could see dead dogs hanging in the shop windows. Arnie said that he hadn’t seen any dogs, but there were chickens and ducks. This was less interesting; after all, Frumkin’s Fine Meats also had chickens hanging in the back for people’s mothers to buy for Shabbas dinner on Fridays. 

“Children, quiet!” Miss Norrington snapped. Her lips were squeezed together, and her face was very white except for two spots of red in her cheeks. 

“Don’t look mad, Teacher,” Hershy said. “We answered your questions, right?” 

“Of course not!” Miss Norrington said. “That isn’t what Christmas means at all.” 

Some of the girls were giggling. They tried to hide behind their hands, but Gertie Elfman made a funny little squeak, and the whole class dissolved into laughter. Miss Norrington looked horrified, and shrank back in her chair. Steve exchanged a glance with Bucky, and was glad to see that someone beside himself seemed worried about her. “Shut up!” he yelled. “Shut up, everybody! Do you want Mr. Koller to come in here?” 

The laughter died down. Miss Norrington huffed out a little sigh. “Thank you, Steve.” 

Steve ducked his head. “My ma always says that nobody knows everything, so you shouldn’t be rude to people who don’t know things,” he said. “Most of us here don’t have Christmas. We have Hanukkah.” 

“We’re going to have a big party at the shul tonight,” Rose added. 

Miss Norrington blinked. “Oh,” she said, and was silent for a moment. “Hanukkah. Well. Um.” She glanced at Steve. “I’ve never heard of that before,” she said. “Is that . . . is it the Jewish Christmas?” 

All eyes turned to Steve, which he supposed was fair enough, since he had mentioned it in the first place. He sat up straight and began to explain the holiday story that his mother had told him.

  

 

Later that evening, Steve and Bucky told the whole story to their parents and to Becca, as the two families walked to the shul together. Steve told as much as he could, until a big gulp of air made his lungs burn. As he coughed, Bucky took over the tale, complete with an exaggerated imitation of Miss Norrington’s look of shock that Steve suspected Mrs. Barnes would have scolded him for if she hadn’t been laughing so hard. 

“I suppose that’s what happens when you put a new teacher in an unfamiliar neighborhood,” Sarah Rogers said. “I wonder if we should stop by and invite her to the party tonight.”

“Rose Klein already did,” Steve said. “Miss Norrington said she couldn’t come, because teachers aren’t supposed to be out late in strange company.” 

Becca frowned. “We’re not strange,” she pointed out. 

“We’re strange to her,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Anyway, she’s right about not being allowed out late. Teachers have very strict rules about what they can and can’t do.” 

Mr. Barnes sniffed. “Well, she’ll be missing one hell of a party.” 

Light spilled out of the front door of the shul, and they walked in and started to shed their wraps. Mr. Barnes straightened his tie, while Sarah and Mrs. Barnes made sure that Steve and Bucky each had a kippah bobby-pinned neatly to their hair. “So,” Mr. Barnes said. “Who’s going where tonight? I assume I’m taking these fine young gentlemen with me. Are you ladies going to be down here or in the gallery?” 

“In the kitchen,” Sarah said, and Mrs. Barnes laughed. 

“You don’t think a party like this makes itself?” she added. “Take Becca in with you, and we’ll meet you after the service.” 

Fortunately, Friday night was a short service. Steve was sitting close enough to the door to the social hall that he could hear the ladies laughing and chatting as they set up tables and brought food from the kitchen. His stomach pinched, and he had a hard time concentrating on the prayers when he knew that fresh, hot latkes with sour cream and apple sauce, plates of sugar-dusted ponchkes, salty herring, and patties of sweet gefilte fish were just in the next room. At last, the hazzan led them through “Adon Olam,” with a special holiday melody. The hazzan didn’t include any fancy bits, which made Steve suspect that he was just as eager for the party as everyone else. 

The congregants streamed into the social hall, where the large menorah was set up at the head of a long table filled with food. Rabbi Fierberg nearly tripped over Becca as she wove her way through the crowed, but instead of scolding her, he laughed and steered her to the head of the table. He called all the children to gather around the menorah, and took the shammash candle down and put it in Becca’s hands. “So,” he said. “This little one will help me light the menorah. And all of you are going to help me say the blessings. Do you know them?” 

Steve and Bucky and their friends had been practicing the blessings in Hebrew school, and they all stood straight up to sing along with Rabbi Fierberg. As they sang, Rabbi Fierberg’s wife lit the candle in Becca’s hands, and Becca touched the flame to the single candle that stood proudly in its branch of the menorah. Steve made it almost all the way through the blessings before he had to stop and cough. No one laughed, and Bucky pounded him on the back, which made him feel better. 

After the menorah was lit, Rabbi and Mrs. Fierberg distributed little bags of candy to all the children, and when they opened them, they found that each bag contained a nickel as well! Steve and Bucky heaped their plates with latkes. They could eat as many of these as they wanted, but Sarah and Mrs. Barnes agreed that they couldn’t have any ponchkes until they had eaten either three pieces of herring or one patty of gefilte fish. Steve liked the salty herring, but Bucky preferred gefilte fish.

A few of the kids were playing dreidel in small groups. Mrs. Silber and the young, newly married Mrs. Weinberg, whose name was Sarah just like Steve’s mother, stood guard to make sure that they only played for peanuts and that no one tried to toss the nickels into the pot. 

“My sister Henny did that when we were kids,” Mrs. Weinberg said, when Bucky asked why they couldn’t play for nickels. “She got all the kids in the neighborhood to put their pennies – back then, it was pennies, you children are very lucky to have nickels – into the pot, and she won the whole pile. Oy, you should have heard the crying, because how do you explain to a five-year-old that Henny just won their shiny new penny? So no one plays for money at this party.” 

Steve was just as happy to play for peanuts, as long as he could sit down. Some of the other boys were running around, but Steve’s lungs didn’t seem to be working quite right today. The hot latkes had helped a little bit, but he still coughed embarrassingly loudly. Sarah came over and felt his forehead. “You feel a bit warm,” she said, “but I don’t know whether it’s a fever or just all the excitement in here.” 

She glanced at Mrs. Barnes. Mrs. Barnes looked at the clock. “It’s getting late enough,” she said. “We’ve all had something to eat, and it’s getting close to Becca’s bedtime. We could walk you home. I’ll go find George.” 

Steve and Bucky looked around, but they couldn’t find Mr. Barnes in the crowd. Just then, they heard a terrific honking noise outside. Sarah and Mrs. Barnes rushed to the door. Bucky pulled Steve to his feet, and they followed after, with Becca hot on their heels. Rabbi Fierberg and the rest of the congregation crowded into the hallway after them. 

On the street just outside the shul was a shiny, brand-new car with a blaring horn. All up and down the street, lights went on, and windows opened as people tried to see who the crazy person honking a car horn on the street was. As soon as the shul’s front door opened, the car horn stopped honking, and Mr. Barnes stepped out! Mrs. Barnes shrieked and clutched at Sarah Rogers’s hand. Steve and Bucky stared. Bucky’s mouth hung open, and no one told him to close it before he caught flies. 

“George!” Mrs. Barnes cried. “What is that?”

Mr. Barnes grinned broadly in the glow of the street lamps, and thumped his hand on the car’s hood. “That,” he said, “is a brand-new 1928 Hudson Model O. Happy Hanukkah, Winnie!” 

Mrs. Barnes let go of Sarah’s hand and rushed down the steps, stopping short on the sidewalk and staring at the car. “George, where did it come from? How much – can we afford – what did you . . . ?” 

“Don’t worry,” Mr. Barnes said, coming around the car to take Mrs. Barnes’s hands in his. “Business has been so good for the past couple of years, I thought, why not? I started putting away a little bit each month, just to surprise you. I got a good price for this one. It’s getting on to the end of the year, and the dealer wanted to make room for next year’s models, so we worked out a very good deal.” 

“George, I – I don’t know what to say.” Mrs. Barnes turned back and looked at the rest of the shul for help. They stared back, as shocked and pleased as she was. Sarah came down the steps and hugged her friend tightly. Steve and Bucky and Becca followed, not quite daring to believe that this brand-new car was actually in front of them.

Mr. Barnes smiled. “It looks like I did surprise you,” he said. “Look, we can all use it. We can drive up to the Bronx to visit my sister, or we could drive out to the beach without having to wait on the streetcar. Look, next year, you could bring your dishes and that big sack of potatoes to the shul without having to pull them in Becca’s little wagon. We could even put them in the trunk and carry them home right now.” 

“Can you drive on Shabbas?” Bucky asked. They all looked up at Rabbi Fierberg. 

The rabbi laughed. “Tonight, such a fine gift as this, from a husband to a wife, absolutely you can drive!” he said. “It’s a mitzvah to make your family so happy.” 

“There,” said Mr. Barnes. “You see? And there’s enough room for our neighbors here to ride with us,” he added, extending a hand to Sarah. “I heard Steve coughing tonight,” he said, softly so that only Sarah and Mrs. Barnes could hear. “It’s cold outside and maybe he shouldn’t walk if he doesn’t have to.” 

“Thank you,” Sarah said. 

She and Mrs. Barnes hurried back into the shul and emerged carrying the children’s coats and hats and scarves, while Mrs. Fierberg and Mrs. Silber brought their plates and silverware out to the car in a large box. The three children piled into the back seat of the car, with Bucky in the middle so that he could sit next to both Becca and Steve. Mrs. Barnes spread a blanket across their laps and tucked it in. The adults squeezed into the front bench seat, and Mr. Barnes started the motor. 

The car smelled clean and new. The seats were upholstered in wool and had soft cushions that bounced a little. The motor purred softly, and Becca waved out the window as Mr. Barnes steered the car onto the road. 

“This is amazing,” Bucky choked out.

“Good solid construction,” Mr. Barnes said. “It’ll last us for years and years. When you kids are old enough, I’ll teach you to drive it. You, too, Winnie. We can start whenever you want.” 

Steve snuggled down beneath the blanket. He was warm, pressed up against Bucky, and he had his bag of candy with a whole nickel in it. Outside, the city glided past. It was a short ride to Steve and Sarah’s building, but Steve did not cough once, all the way home.


	2. The Second Candle:  December 18, 1938

  1. **The Second Candle: December 18, 1938**



  

 

Steve flopped down on his bed, exhausted and shivering. It was just as cold inside as it was outside, but Steve didn’t dare to open the radiator, which was old and cheap and always seemed to be on the verge of exploding. He would have to get up and cook dinner soon. There wasn’t much in the cupboard, and Steve was an indifferent cook, but at least the stove would warm the apartment a little, and the food, though plain, would be hot. 

To be honest, Steve didn’t care that his food was plain and that his apartment was so cold that he could barely move his fingers to draw. He would never be able to cook food for himself that tasted as good as his mother’s cooking had, and since the day that Sarah had drawn her last breath while Steve sat outside in the hallway, forbidden from coming into her hospital room, he was sure the apartment would never be warm again. 

It had been nearly a month since Sarah had died, but Steve felt as though he had been cold for much longer than that. Sarah had been unable to work at all for the last few months of her life, and the money that Steve made selling a few drawings to small magazines wasn’t enough to pay for everything that they needed. There had been savings, but not much, and that money was nearly gone. The landlord, Mr. Pitruzzello, had told Steve the day after the funeral that he wouldn’t raise Steve’s rent that year, but that didn’t mean that the rent didn’t have to be paid at all. And Steve had no idea how he was going to pay the hospital bills. 

He supposed that things weren’t completely hopeless. There were always things to sell, if you looked hard enough. Steve had already sold the radio, there were one or two pieces of jewelry that weren’t paste, and he thought that the secondhand shop around the corner might give him a decent price for a few of Sarah’s nicer dresses, once they gave up their last bits of her scent. And _Collier’s_ had hired him to do illustrations for several short stories, and had paid him a tiny advance, with the promise of a significant fee if they liked the illustrations. 

Of course, Steve would only get that money if he completed the drawings, and it was hard even to think about drawing when his hands were too cold to move. He decided that he should probably at least warm up a can of Campbell’s soup; if nothing else, lighting the stove and stirring the soup would warm his hands. Steve hauled himself off of the bed and made his way into the kitchen. He opened the cupboard, and sure enough, a few cans with disgustingly cheerful red and white labels lurked in the back. He stared at them, unable to make himself take one off of the shelf. 

He might have stood there all night, slowly freezing into a lump of ice, but a knock on the door roused him. He opened the door and saw Bucky standing there. A tiny tendril of warmth curled through his body, and he managed a fleeting half-smile. “Hey, Buck.” 

“Hey yourself,” Bucky said. “You had dinner yet?” He looked past Steve at the open cupboard, and shook his head. “Of course you didn’t. It’s freezing in here.” 

“I was going to warm up some soup,” Steve mumbled. 

Bucky smiled. “Well, forget about that,” he said. “Ma sent me to invite you over to our place to eat. We’re lighting candles in a bit.” 

Steve sucked in a sharp breath. He’d been so undone by grief that he’d completely forgotten that Hanukkah had started last night. He wrapped his arms around his body. “I can take care of myself,” he said, although even he didn’t think it sounded particularly convincing. 

“Yeah, I know you can,” Bucky said. “But ma was kind of counting on you, and she made more latkes than we can eat. And you know they won’t keep. Come on. Please.” 

Steve turned his head away, but Bucky moved to follow him, and batted his eyes outrageously at Steve. “And both Becca and Ida were asking about you,” he added. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint my ma and my little sisters, would you?” 

“Jerk,” Steve said, but he was smiling even as the word left his mouth. Bucky knew him too well, and could always find exactly the right thing to say or do that would convince Steve to abandon whatever he’d been doing to spend time with Bucky. And it was true that Mrs. Barnes made delicious latkes, and that they would be warm, crisp on the outside and tender on the inside, smothered with applesauce and infinitely more appealing than a warmed-over plate of Campbell’s soup. He pulled his jacket off the hook by the door and followed Bucky down the hall to the stairwell.

 

 

Just as Bucky had promised, his apartment smelled richly of fried potatoes and onions. Steve had just enough time to appreciate the light and warmth, and then Mrs. Barnes wrapped him up in an enormous hug. “Steve, I’m so glad you decided to come and join us,” she said, and then released him and held him at arm’s length. “Honey, you’re getting so thin! I know you miss your mama, but you’ve got to eat.” 

“We’ll feed him up right, won’t we, ma?” Bucky said, throwing an arm over Steve’s shoulders.

Mrs. Barnes nodded vigorously. “I got latkes and fish and a nice soup with rice and mandlen. No sour cream tonight, because of the soup.” 

“That’s okay,” Steve said. “I like applesauce better anyway.” 

He followed Bucky and Mrs. Barnes into the main room, where the table had been set for six with a lace tablecloth and the company china. Becca and little Ida were just setting plates of food on the table, and Mr. Barnes wedged two candles into the large brass menorah. Ida put down the bowl of applesauce with a thump, and ran around the table. “Steve’s here, Steve’s here!” she cried. “Can we make paper dolls again, please please?” 

“Ida, for shame,” Becca said. “Steve’s only just gotten here.” 

“Maybe after dinner, tchatchke,” Mr. Barnes said. “You ask him then, nicely.” He stuck the shammash candle in its holder and came to enfold Steve in a quick embrace. “It’s good to see you. I want to know how you’re getting along, but why don’t you light the candles first, since you’re here.” 

“Okay.” 

Steve went to the table, and Bucky and the rest of his family crowded around, surrounding Steve with their warmth. He lit the shammash candle and then lit the two candles in the menorah as Bucky, Becca, and Ida sang the blessings. Steve gazed at the little flames for a moment, basking in the glow. Bucky put a hand on his shoulder, and he smiled. 

He had only an instant to enjoy it, though. As soon as her children finished the candle blessings, Mrs. Barnes hustled everyone to their seats so that she could begin serving the food while it was still warm.

 

 

After dinner, Steve felt warm and full for the first time in what felt like forever. He nibbled at a cookie and sipped coffee, enjoying the feeling of filling up the last little corners. He glanced over at Bucky, who was sitting near the end of the menorah with the candles. The candlelight reflected off of Bucky’s face just right, and Bucky seemed to glow with warmth. Idly, Steve imagined sitting pressed up against Bucky, absorbing the heat that would radiate off of him. If he could just fix that image firmly in his mind, maybe he could use it at night to trick his body into thinking that it was warm. 

Mr. Barnes sighed, and patted at his waistcoat. “Now, that was an excellent dinner, Winnie. And how lucky we are that not a bite went to waste. I’m so full that my belly is tight as a drum – and what’s this?” He smiled as he patted the pockets of the waistcoat. Ida wiggled in her chair with excitement, and Becca looked hopeful. 

Mr. Barnes reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. With as much drama as he could bring to the moment, he opened it and shook four dimes into his palm. He gave one to Ida, one to Becca, one to Bucky, and the last one to Steve. 

Steve blinked to keep the tears out of his eyes. That ten cents would buy candy for Ida, a Tangee lipstick for Becca, or a movie ticket for Bucky, but it could buy him a whole loaf of bread, which would mean meals for several days. He wondered if Mr. Barnes knew that, but when he raised his head and looked Mr. Barnes in the eye, he could see that he did. “Thank you,” he choked out. 

“Steve, you remember the rule, right?” Mr. Barnes said. “All the kids get Hanukkah gelt. Wouldn’t be fair to leave anyone out, and what’s Hanukkah without latkes and a little gelt, eh?” 

Steve smiled, and put his dime in his pocket. 

Having received her gelt, Ida decided that dinner was definitively over. She hopped down from her chair, ran around the table, and shook the back of Steve’s chair. “Can we make paper dolls now?” she begged. 

“Ida!” Mrs. Barnes said. “Don’t you think that Steve would like to spend some time with Bucky?” 

“Don’t worry, ma, it’s okay,” Bucky said. He got up from the table. “Don’t get up, Becca. I’ll help ma clear the dishes tonight. You go make sure that Ida doesn’t walk all over Steve.” 

Ida raced into the bedroom that she shared with Becca, and brought back a box filled with scraps of paper, pencils, crayons, scissors, and tattered old magazines. She plopped down on the floor of the main room and looked expectantly at Steve. Steve laughed a little, and went to join her on the floor. 

“What happened to the paper dolls we made last time I came over?” he asked. 

Ida sighed. “Bucky stomped on them and tore them up.” 

“Ida!” Becca said. She turned to Steve. “He didn’t really stomp on them. He came in from work last week and tripped, and his foot just landed wrong.” 

“As I recall, it was your party shoes he tripped over,” Mr. Barnes put in. 

“Well, there wasn’t enough room in the shoe bin, tata,” Becca retorted. “Bucky’s work boots are even bigger than yours, and they’re filthy.” 

“You’re all growing up so fast,” Mr. Barnes said. He nodded in Ida’s general direction. “Can you imagine when that one grows up into a young lady? I won’t be able to tell whose party shoes are whose!”

“Paper dolls,” Ida reminded Steve. He smiled, and picked up a pencil. 

For a while, everything was quiet and pleasant and homey. Steve drew paper dolls and their outfits based on pictures that Ida showed him in the magazines. They both colored the dolls with crayons, and Ida carefully cut out the dolls and hooked their outfits on with the little tabs that Steve added. Mr. Barnes read the _Forward_ in Yiddish, occasionally translating a bit that he thought the others might be interested in, and Becca worked math problems at the cleared dinner table. From the kitchen, Steve could hear Bucky and Mrs. Barnes talking in low voices, though he couldn’t make out any particular words. 

After Steve and Ida had made three paper dolls and a sufficient selection of outfits, Mrs. Barnes appeared in the doorway, and Mr. Barnes put his newspaper down. “Steve,” he said. “Be honest now. How are you getting along?” 

Steve sighed, and glanced at Ida. Mrs. Barnes followed his gaze. “Ida,” she said. “It’s nearly bedtime. Say thank you to Steve, clean up those dolls, and go put your nightgown on.” 

“Awww,” Ida said. 

“Now. Or do you want Bucky to fall down all over your nice dolls again?” 

“Okay.” Steve helped Ida put the paper dolls and the supplies back in the box. “Thank you, Steve,” she said, and carried the box back into the girls’ bedroom, stomping her feet as she went. Mr. and Mrs. Barnes watched her go, and then they both looked expectantly at Steve. 

“It’s hard,” Steve admitted. “It feels like there’s something in my middle that hurts all the time, and it’s awfully lonely in my apartment. The radiators don’t ever seem to work right, and it’s hard to get up to cook when it’s just me. I’ve been thinking what to do to save money. There are some boarding houses over on Flushing Avenue near the Navy Yard that look like they have reasonable rates.” 

“You’d move away?” Becca cried. “Out of the neighborhood, where you’d have to take a streetcar to see everyone?” 

“You’d leave us so soon after your mama did?” Mrs. Barnes added. “Your mama and I were friends for so many years. I can’t bear to think of strangers moving into her place.” 

“It’s more expensive than I realized,” Steve said. “And illustration jobs don’t exactly pay regularly.” 

Mr. Barnes gave a harrumph. “Still, over by the Navy Yard . . . that’s a pretty rough neighborhood. And you’re not very big.”

“I can take care of myself,” Steve said. 

Now it was Mrs. Barnes’s turn to sniff dismissively. “Don’t I know it? The way your mama went through bandages from all the fights you got into. Who’d patch you up over in the Navy Yard, I’d like to know.” 

Steve gritted his teeth. “If it’s what I have to do.” 

“What if it’s not?” Bucky emerged from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. 

Steve slumped down, unable to put up a front in the face of the entire Barnes family looking disapprovingly at him. “I gotta be realistic here,” he said. “Not a whole lot of call for a little guy with bad lungs who can’t do much beyond draw. A lot of guys live in boarding houses. No shame in that.” 

Bucky caught his mother’s eye, and a slow smile spread over his face. “Well, if that’s true, then who says you have to be the boarder?” 

Mr. Barnes chuckled, and Mrs. Barnes looked satisfied. Steve glanced at Becca, but she seemed as puzzled as he was. “The rent, and the fact that I don’t make enough money to pay it?” he offered. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “But I got that nice job over at the hat factory, which is bringing in a bit of cabbage. And I got two sisters who use up the second bedroom, spread their shoes and their paper dolls all over the place, and make me sleep on the couch.” 

“It’s not like there’s much more than a couch at my place,” Steve pointed out. 

“Yeah, but with only two of us, that’s still more room than here.” 

Mr. Barnes exchanged a glance with Mrs. Barnes, and his eyes twinkled. “It’s a thought. You’d both still be nearby. And you’ve always been either at that place or this one. Wouldn’t be all that different.” 

“We could still keep an eye on you,” Mrs. Barnes said. “You might honor us with your presence at dinner occasionally.” 

“Friday night,” Becca suggested. “You could come on Friday nights after shul.”

It was a thought. It was, in fact, an awfully tempting thought. Steve considered the cold, silent apartment that awaited him, and imagined it with the stove on and someone to talk to over warmed-up Campbell’s soup. He thought about how lonely he got late at night when he couldn’t sleep, and imagined knowing that there was someone else with him. He remembered the first few days after the funeral, when he had slept next to Bucky on the floor in this very room, and how he had cried into his pillow. He had tried to keep quiet, but Bucky had woken anyway, and had gone into the kitchen to make tea for him. 

“You think it over,” Mrs. Barnes said. “Take as long as you need.” 

Steve looked at the menorah on the table. The glowing candles were nearly finished, sputtering and flickering in an effort to stay alive. As he watched, the shammash candle gave one last spurt and then faded. A tiny stream of smoke rose from the wick. Steve had watched hundreds of menorah candles go out in his life, but for some reason, a lump swelled in his throat as he watched these lights die. 

Becca took her homework into the bedroom, and Steve could hear her talking quietly with Ida. Mr. Barnes picked up the _Forward_ again. Bucky flashed a quick, uncertain smile, and vanished into the kitchen. Mrs. Barnes shuffled around quietly, putting dishes back into the cupboards near the table. A comfortable silence spread over the home, and Steve tried to pretend that he didn’t care about leaving to go home and crawl under his icy quilt. 

Finally, the last candle guttered and died. Steve sighed, and hauled himself off of the floor. “I’d better be going,” he said softly. 

Mr. Barnes put the newspaper down, and rose to his feet. “You think about that offer,” he said. “If your rent’s paid up through the end of the month, you don’t have to do anything for a few more days yet. Maybe wait till the end of the holiday to decide.” 

“Okay.” It did feel good to know that he wasn’t exiled to the Navy Yard just yet. Steve went to the kitchen so that he could say goodbye to Mrs. Barnes. Just then, Bucky emerged from the kitchen, carrying a satchel and a large box. “Where are you off to?” Steve asked. 

“Where do you think?” Bucky replied with a smile. “I’m walking you home, genius. Ma boxed up some jars of soup and a loaf each of challah and rye, and a couple of other little noshes for you.” 

Mrs. Barnes appeared at the kitchen door. “Bucky’s going to help you carry it home. Nobody ought to be living on soup out of a can. And when that’s finished, you come to us for Shabbas dinner. A chicken divides much better six ways than five.” 

Steve smiled. “Thank you.” 

Mrs. Barnes gave him another long hug, and then shoved him and Bucky out the door. 

The walk back to Steve’s apartment wasn’t long at all, but it was cold out, and Steve was glad that Bucky was there to carry the box of food up the steps. He unlocked the door and stepped inside, turning on the ceiling lamp so that Bucky could see to put the box of food down on the table. 

“Thanks for carrying that,” Steve said. “I can put it away.” 

Bucky shrugged, and put the jar of soup into the icebox. “Or I could help.” 

Steve went to put the bread away, and discovered a sack with half a dozen apples and another sack with cookies in the box as well. Bucky smiled. “Ma thinks that you shouldn’t go without something sweet, especially now.” 

Steve put the cookies and bread into the breadbox and sat down in one of the wooden chairs. Bucky found a basket in one of the cupboards and put the apples into it, then placed the basket on the board laid over the bathtub that served as a table. Steve watched him, wanting to savor the last few moments before Bucky had to leave and he would be alone again. 

“Don’t go,” he heard himself say. 

Bucky leaned against the door and raised his eyebrows at Steve. Steve took a deep breath, and stood up. 

“If you can bear it. The cold, I mean. It’s just . . . I like it when you’re here. Just a little bit longer.” 

A smile spread over Bucky’s face. He reached out and clasped Steve’s shoulder. “As long as you need me and my rent money,” he said. 

Steve laughed a little, and the world seemed brighter. “Thank you.” His glance fell on the satchel that Bucky had brought with him. 

Bucky blushed. “Ma . . . kind of thought you’d give in once you were here. She said I should take some overnight things, just in case. We can work out the details tomorrow, or the next day.” 

Steve had to take a few deep, gulping breaths, and Bucky pulled him close against his side for a moment. “Remember what I told you,” he said. “End of the line, and this ain’t it.” 

“You don’t mind sleeping on the couch?” Steve asked. “I’ll find a pillow and a blanket.” 

“Fine by me,” Bucky said. “Though, if we’re really going to do this, there’s one thing we gotta take care of.” 

“Yeah? What’s that?” 

“Tomorrow morning,” Bucky said, “we are going to make the landlord fix the radiator, and we’re getting you warm. I don’t want to live in an icebox, and neither do you.” 

Steve nodded. “Okay. But you’re helping to pay for the work.” 

“Fine by me.” 

Bucky gave him another squeeze, and then released him. Steve went off to find a pillow and blanket, already feeling warmer inside.


	3. The Third Candle:  December 5, 1942

  1. **The Third Candle: December 5, 1942**



  

 

In a shower of freezing rain, the bus pulled up outside the Riverside Theater in Milwaukee. As its name promised, it was right on the river promenade, and there was a Gimbel’s department store opposite it. Dottie and Helen peered out the windows of the bus. “Looks respectable enough,” Dottie said, a bit dubiously. 

“For Milwaukee,” Helen retorted. 

Steve tried to get a glimpse of the theater from the other side of the bus. “I don’t get it. It looks fine to me. Kind of fancy, even.” 

Charlie Rudnik laughed from the seat behind him. “You haven’t been in the business long enough to know,” he said. “The three worst weeks in any show’s life. Holy Week, the week before Christmas, and the week in Milwaukee. It just so happens we’re getting two of them in the same month.” 

The rest of the troupe laughed bitterly. “They don’t go to shows in Milwaukee,” Mildred explained. “I don’t know why, or what else they got going on here that’s so much better than us.” 

“I heard that most of the theaters are changing into picture houses,” Bernice said. 

There wasn’t time for any more discussion. John McGee got up from his seat at the very front of the bus, stood in the aisle, and hollered for quiet. “So,” he said. “We’re here. We’ve got a week-long engagement, eight shows with a Sunday matinée. You’ll be staying just two blocks away, at the Royal.” 

This announcement was met with a chorus of groans, although Steve noticed that at least two of the chorus dancers suddenly looked very interested. Charlie leaned over the seat back to whisper in Steve’s ear. “Just a word to the wise. Watch your ass when you’re in the hotel bar and the men’s room, because I guarantee you won’t be the only one doing that.” 

Steve leaned back so that he could whisper without turning his head. “You think that I –?” 

“Doesn’t matter to me what you want or who you want. Just . . . you should know that’s the kind of clientele they get at the Royal. How you take that is up to you.” 

Just then, Steve noticed McGee glaring at them. Charlie must have noticed, too, because he stopped whispering and sat back in his seat. When McGee was sure that they were all quiet again, he gave a pointed smiled. “As I was saying, we’re putting you up at the Royal. Curtain is at eight, so we don’t have time to take you to the hotel first. You’re all getting out here. King, you’ll liaise with the local talent. Cramer, Miss Fisher, you get this crowd set up in the dressing rooms, warm them up, and run them through their numbers. I’ll take all your things to the hotel. Everybody know what they’re doing? All right.” 

The troupe swung into action, as practiced and confident as any Army unit, grabbing the cases full of costumes and props and carrying them into the theater quickly so that they wouldn’t be damaged by the icy rain. When they arrived backstage, they were greeted by a gaggle of local variety performers, who welcomed them and showed them where the dressing rooms were. A magician named Elmer Willis, who said that he came from a town two counties over called Beaver Dam, opened the door to one dressing room that he said Steve would be sharing with Charlie. He shrugged apologetically at Steve. “Headliners ought to have their own rooms, I know, but we just don’t have enough. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Steve put on his Captain America smile. “Not at all. Happy to do my bit.” In fact, he enjoyed sharing with Charlie, who could help him with his makeup and who always had the most interesting stories to tell while the variety acts were on.

  

 

Halfway through the rehearsal, Eli Cramer was called to the theater office. Miss Fisher clapped her hands and made the troupe continue the rehearsal, but after a few minutes, the call boy returned to fetch her as well. She sighed, and told the troupe to take ten. As soon as she left, Bernice and Mildred ran over to Steve. “Let’s practice the bench,” Mildred said, giggling a little. 

“Okay.” Mildred’s enthusiasm always cheered Steve up. Although Anton Kerensky didn’t travel with the troupe, he had left Steve with an assignment before he rejoined the circus. Every day, Steve was to practice lifting something large and heavy over his head, trying to make the lift smooth and clean and not lose his balance and fall over. The goal was to teach Steve to lift a prop motorcycle containing Annie, Bernice, and Mildred over his head without tossing the girls off. Since most theaters did not have a weightlifting gym, Bernice suggested that they use a bench, balanced with one girl on either end. 

Dottie and Helen found a bench and carried it out onto the stage. Steve lifted it over his head a few times, testing its weight and balance and warming up his muscles for lifting. Once he was satisfied with the bench on its own, Bernice and Mildred sat down on the ends, straddling it just like they sat on the prop bike. Annie organized groups of dancers at the ends, ready to catch Bernice and Mildred if they fell off, and Charlie stood behind Steve to spot him. 

Steve squatted down, counted “One, two, three, and – up!” and pressed the bench up, maneuvering to fit his body underneath it as soon as he could. Bernice and Mildred swayed, working to keep themselves steady as the bench went up. Just as Steve pushed the bench over his head, there was a cheer from the audience. Steve glanced into the house, and saw the members of the Hotsy-Totsy Hoofers, a local dance troupe that would be performing with them as one of the variety acts. He kept the bench in the air for a few more seconds, and then lowered it as gently as he could. The Hotsy-Totsy Hoofers applauded, and Steve took a bow. 

Just as he did, Eli Cramer and Miss Fisher returned to the auditorium. “Settle down, everyone, and listen up!” Eli called, his voice booming through the theater. When the performers were quiet, he strode to the foot of the stage. 

“John McGee just called from the Royal. He said to tell you that you’re all checked in with the normal roommate assignments. He also sent his apologies and said that he won’t be able to come to the show tonight.” 

This announcement met with a chorus of groans and grumbles from the stage, which Eli tried to quell with hand gestures. “I know it’s disappointing,” he said, “but apparently there’s an important appointment tonight that he can’t miss.” 

“Wonder how much she charges per hour,” Annie whispered to Bernice. 

“Nevertheless,” Eli went on, casting an eagle-eyed glare in Annie’s general direction, “he told me that he expects you all to perform beautifully, give it your all, and remember that it’s all for the boys on the front lines.” 

That meant Bucky, and Steve kept himself amused for the rest of the rehearsal imagining the look on Bucky’s face if he ever found out what Steve was doing now.

  

 

The period between the rehearsal and the show always felt awkward. It was too long to be filled up by putting makeup on and getting into costume, but it wasn’t long enough for anyone to go outside and do anything. Sharing a dressing room with Charlie at least made it more interesting, as Steve could watch Charlie go through the process of applying greasepaint to his face and blending the colors, slicking his hair down, and applying the Führer’s distinctive mustache to his face with spirit gum. After Charlie finished, Steve took out the Max Factor that his friends had taught him to use and started to make himself up. Charlie checked his face when he was finished, swiped at his cheeks, and made him blot his lips once more on a tissue. 

“Not bad,” he said. “You’ve really picked this up.” 

Steve chuckled. “Of all the things I never thought I’d have to learn.” 

Charlie looked at the clock and groaned. “Forty minutes to curtain,” he said. “And we’re not called for a while after that.” He rooted around in his bag for a pack of cards, but Steve suddenly thought of something else. 

“We should be lighting candles now, I think.” 

Charlie stopped searching. “Shit. You’re right,” he said. “We’ve been traveling so much, I plain forgot. Do you have any candles?” 

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to Steve that being part of a traveling show would mean being in a strange city for a holiday, and he had neither candles nor a menorah to put them in. There wasn’t enough time to go out and buy them. Charlie poked through the dresser drawers, and came up with a few large blackout candles. They were entirely too large, but they would have to do. 

Steve started to look for matches and a place to put the candles, but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He and Charlie glanced at each other, puzzled, since it was far too early for the call boy to appear. 

“Come in,” Steve called. 

The door opened, revealing a young man whom Steve vaguely recognized as being one of the Hotsy-Totsy Hoofers. “Steve Rogers and Charles Rudnik?” he asked. 

“That’s us,” Charlie said. 

The Hotsy-Totsy Hoofer stuck out his hand. “Irving Berger,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Listen, I don’t mean to be forward, and if I’ve made a mistake, just yell at me, but . . . a bunch of us are going to be lighting candles in our dressing room. We didn’t know . . . well, we figured at least some of your troupe might like to join us? So they sent me to ask you, and Ella Fox is asking the girls.” 

 

 

A few minutes later, Steve, Charlie, Bernice, a few of the other chorus dancers, Eli Cramer, and a juggler from Madison all crowded into the communal dressing room that the Hotsy-Totsy Hoofers were using. “Hey!” Irving called. “The out-of-towners are here. Let’s get these candles lit before the management comes in.” 

“Who’s going to light?” someone asked. 

All heads immediately turned in Steve’s direction. “What? Why me?” Steve asked. 

Everyone, local and out-of-towners alike, burst out laughing. “Look at you!” one of the Hotsy-Totsy Hoofers said. “You’re dressed up like the flag. You can’t have Captain America himself come to your Hanukkah party and _not_ ask him to light the candles!” 

She had a point, and Steve took up the box of matches. The troupers sang the blessings in exaggerated harmony and then passed cups of juice around. “Nothing stronger for now, because we have to dance,” Irving said. “But afterwards, a bunch of us will be meeting up at the boarding house where we live, and there’ll be a real party. You should come to that. We’ll have doughnuts and popcorn and candy, and we’ll also have real drinks for you. What do you say?” 

Charlie grinned broadly. “I think I speak for all of us. Lead the way!” 

The performers fell to easy chattering and a few demonstrations of balancing skill and card tricks while the candles burned. Steve found himself relaxed and happy for the first time since setting off on the tour, and he even learned how to do a few of the card tricks. He was just imagining getting home to New York and trying them out on Becca and Ida Barnes when the call boy knocked on the door. “Star-Spangled Singers, overture and opening number, five minutes, please,” he said. 

Bernice and the other dancers sighed. “Oh well,” she said. “Party’s over. Time to get to work.” 

Charlie waggled his eyebrows at her. “Party’s just on hold, cookie.” 

“Ah, get out of town!” Bernice kissed Charlie on the lips, delicately enough that her lipstick didn’t smear, and the Star Spangled Dancers filed out. The other performers made their goodbyes soon afterwards, promising to meet up after the show to go to the party.

  

 

The party at the boardinghouse had food, records, drinks, and excellent company, just as promised. Steve matched Charlie and Irving drink for drink, and by the end of the night, discovered that it was now his task to help Charlie back to the Royal Hotel for a few hours of sleep before they had to be up and at rehearsal for the Sunday matinée. He noted with some wry amusement that there were more clearly hungover performers than just the ones who had attended the party. Molly, a short, dark-haired dancer who tended to be at the very end of the kick line, looked distinctly pleased with herself, and Steve vaguely remembered Charlie’s words about the bar at the Royal and some of the ladies and gentlemen he had glimpsed as he hauled Charlie into the elevator. 

The morning rehearsal wasn’t as smooth as it could have been, but no one seemed to care. McGee showed up to see it, causing the chorus dancers to whisper behind their hands about where he might have spent the previous evening. After the run-through, McGee assembled the troupe on stage as usual, but today, he had no notes for them. 

“You’re all doing well enough,” he said. “I’ll see the matinée today and have more for you then. But now, I have an announcement to make.” 

Worried glances zipped back and forth between the dancers. “Oh, here it comes,” Helen groaned. 

“Someone’s getting cut for sure,” Dottie said. 

“Well, can you blame them?” Mildred asked. “Between Milwaukee and Christmas coming up, I don’t see how they’re going to pay all of us. That’s two whole weeks of bad box office.” 

Steve was fairly sure that his job and Charlie’s were safe, but a knot of worry for his other friends formed in his stomach. By now, he had spent enough time with the chorus dancers to realize just how replaceable they actually were. As astonished as he was at their skill, he knew that there were hundreds of other girls who could dance just as well, and who were just as pretty. Only he could be Captain America, and he was fairly sure that Eli Cramer would pitch an elegant fit at the prospect of training someone else to play Hitler, but any of the dancers could be replaced by another girl who could learn the routines fast enough. 

McGee called Eli, King, and Miss Fisher out onto the stage, and shuffled through some notes. When he looked up, he was smiling. 

“I know that you all missed me last night, and I apologize for missing the show. When I got to the Royal, I found that I had a telegram waiting for me from Clifford Work, who is the head of production at Universal Studios, out in Hollywood. He wanted me to be available for a long-distance phone conversation last night.” 

A surprised murmur ran through the assembled troupe. Steve was just as impressed as anyone else; long-distance telephone calls were expensive, and only meant to be used for the most important news. 

McGee let the idea of the long-distance call sink in for a moment. Then he held up his hand for quiet. 

“The reason that Clifford Work was calling long-distance was this,” he said. “He and Nate Blumberg – that’s the president – are interested in making a few quick films to contribute to the war effort. They’d seen our publicity packet and some of our reviews, and they want to make a picture featuring Captain America.” 

Steve sucked in a quick, startled gasp of air. The idea that Captain America could be a character in an actual movie, not just a song-and-dance act shilling war bonds, had never crossed his mind. He wondered if he would be allowed to play Captain America in a movie, and then wondered if he would even know how to act in a movie. 

Beside him, he could hear the chorus dancers giggling in shocked delight. Charlie Rudnik clapped him on the back. “Not bad,” he said. “You certainly do know how to get yourself noticed.” 

“Me?” Steve asked, his voice squeaking a bit with nerves. 

“Yes, you, Steve,” McGee said, to the accompaniment of gentle chuckling. “I’ve actually been in touch with Work and Blumberg for a few weeks now, and I’ve made it clear that you are Captain America. No other actor will be considered for the role.” 

“That’s a fine break for Steve,” Helen said, “but what about the rest of us?” 

McGee nodded. “You’ll all have guaranteed opportunities to audition for any suitable roles that might come up in the picture. Otherwise, they’ll look around and try to place you in other troupes, temporarily, for the duration of principal photography.” 

“How does that square with our contracts to this show?” Molly asked. 

“If something comes up for you, you come to me and tell me about it first, and we’ll talk it over,” McGee said. “Any more questions?” 

Steve had lots of questions, nearly as many as he had had when he had first appeared at the rehearsal building in New York to be tried out in singing, dancing, and acting. But he decided that he would write them all down so he wouldn’t forget them, and then approach McGee later on, when he wouldn’t be delaying the matinée performance with the thousand and one undoubtedly stupid questions that he had to ask. 

“If no one has any other burning matters, then, I’ll give you the plan for the next few weeks,” McGee said. “I’ll wire Universal tonight and set up an appointment to sign the final contracts. We’ll finish out our engagement here, make our dates in Chicago and St. Louis, and then we’ll board a train out to California. We should be in Hollywood by New Year’s.”

The troupe let out an enormous cheer, and the dancers hugged each other and chattered excitedly. 

“Can you believe it?” Mildred giggled. “Hollywood!” 

“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” Annie breathed. 

Helen threw her arms around Steve, and Dottie reached up to give him a big kiss on the cheek. “It’s all thanks to you,” she said. 

Charlie kissed Bernice right on the mouth, in front of everyone. Then, keeping one arm around Bernice’s shoulders, he reached up to ruffle Steve’s hair. “Nice going, kid,” he said. “Keep this up, and you could have a real career.” 

Steve tried to imagine himself as a movie star, his face shining from the screen in picture houses like the one that he and Bucky had gone to as often as they could. If he made enough money, he might be able to afford a place in Brooklyn Heights, and wouldn’t that be something for Bucky to come home to, after the war was over? 

“Quick!” Mildred’s excited gasp pulled Steve from his reverie. “Let’s get in some bench practice. Steve’s gotta get that motorcycle trick just right, to make those producers sit up and take notice.” She and Bernice and Annie hurried off to find the bench they had used the day before. 

Steve laughed and shook his head. Dreams of being a movie star and living in luxury in Brooklyn Heights with Bucky were lovely things. But first, he told himself, he still needed to learn to act.


	4. The Fourth Candle:  December 13, 1944

  1. **The Fourth Candle: December 13, 1944**



  

 

The Howling Commandos plodded over the uneven ground of a farm gone to seed. Their breath came out as great uneven clouds as they shivered in the frosty evening. Even Steve’s teeth chattered in the bitter cold that no uniform could quite keep out, though the breaths that he took no longer made his lungs burn and cease to work. No one spoke, and they made no sound beyond the crunch of their feet across the frozen ground and the occasional gasp of cold air. They hiked across the field, and, in the fading light of day, Steve spotted the farmhouse, with a barn nearby. He held up his hand to signal a halt, and waved to Falsworth. “Map,” he murmured. 

Falsworth rummaged in his pack and came up with the crude map that Colonel Phillips had drawn up from intelligence that Peggy Carter had supplied for them. According to Peggy’s intelligence, there was a hidden HYDRA weapons depot somewhere in the area, although “the area” itself was a bit vaguer than Steve would have liked. It was supposed to be around five miles north, or possibly north-east, of a village called Hornstein in eastern Austria. Upon arriving, Steve and his men had discovered that the area was largely rural farmland, and also largely deserted. 

“Most of the men are probably off in the Wehrmacht,” Bucky observed. 

Gabe Jones nodded. “Be hard to keep up the farm with so many people gone from the household.” 

That was certainly true. HYDRA liked to keep their research outposts and weapons caches tucked away in inconspicuous locations, so the Howling Commandos had spent plenty of time combing the rural backwoods of Austria, Czechoslovakia, and northern Italy, and had even ventured into southern Bavaria once or twice. Usually, once they got far enough into the woods, it wasn’t terribly difficult to find the solid concrete bunkers that HYDRA needed to keep their more volatile experiments contained. On the odd occasion where the bunker was better camouflaged than that, there was almost always a scientist or a soldier whose movements would lead them directly to the outpost. 

But today, Peggy’s sources had led them to what seemed to be a deserted farm exposed in the middle of a plain, for all to see. Night was falling, and the temperature was dropping fast. Steve thought that he might be able to forge ahead in the cold and the dark for at least a little while, and Bucky seemed bound and determined to keep up with him, no matter what he did. But the others needed rest and warmth, and would not be able to search so well at night without shining lights that would give them away to any unusually well hidden HYDRA guards. 

“We’ll stop here at the farm for the night,” Steve said. “Have something to eat, get some rest. We can pick up the search in the morning, when it’s light out and we’re all fresh again.” 

He steered the group into the barn. An unpleasant encounter with a little old lady wielding her late husband’s Mannlicher M1895 from the previous war had taught them that not all farmhouses that appeared deserted when they arrived would necessarily remain so. The barn wouldn’t provide much warmth, but it would give shelter from the biting wind, and there would be plenty of places to hide if any of the farm’s residents returned in the night.

  

 

A short time later, the Howling Commandos sat huddled up against each other, their backs to a large supply of hay for animals that had long since either wandered off or been eaten, shivering as they opened their ration cans. “Mystery meat stew again,” Dum Dum said. “Nothing but the best for the boys at the front, right?” 

The others chuckled bitterly. Bucky stabbed his wooden spoon into his can of meat and noodles. “Think I’ve forgotten what actual food tastes like. This crap is starting to smell pretty good.” 

Steve laughed, and then opened his can to discover ham and lima beans. He sighed, and glanced around at the others’ cans. Fortunately, Morita had opened a can of chicken and vegetables, and was willing to trade. Falsworth observed the swap, and smiled. 

“I must say, I admire your commitment,” he said, nodding his head to include Bucky in that statement. “I should think that, by now, most soldiers of your persuasion would have given up and accepted the luck of the draw, as it were.” 

“Gotta remember what we’re fighting for,” Steve said. He put a spoonful of chicken and vegetables in his mouth and regretted it, but swallowed anyway. At least one of them had a can of chicken. All too often, there had been times when no one had a can with beef or chicken. Steve and Bucky had learned to choke down pork and beans when they had to, but Steve could never quite accustom himself to the too-sweet taste of the pork. 

Dernier swore in French, got up, and vanished into one of the darker corners of the barn. Gabe Jones called after him, and they exchanged a few hushed words in French. Steve’s French was improving, but he wasn’t quite good enough to follow their rapid exchange. After a moment, Jones turned back to the rest of the group. 

“He says he can’t eat one more bite of this pig slop, and he’s going to see if there’s any actual food left in the barn.” 

Dum Dum snorted. “Make sure he shares, is all I’ve got to say.” 

Morita chewed a bite of ham and lima beans thoughtfully. “Can’t imagine that HYDRA would have a weapons depot out in a place like this,” he said. “All open and exposed. Not really their type of place.” 

“But it is rather isolated,” Falsworth countered. “If they were doing something, no one would notice.” 

Bucky gave a grim little smile. “Someone did notice, though. That intelligence Agent Carter got had to have come from somewhere, right?” 

“Maybe,” Jones said. “Can you trust it, though? I mean . . . not to be crude or anything, Cap – I know there’s something between you and her – but wouldn’t you tell her anything to get her to stay in the room with you?” 

Steve laughed, though he couldn’t help shooting a quick glance over at Bucky. “Not the way she interrogates people. Tell her anything to get her to back off, maybe.” 

That got a general chuckle, and even an amused grin from Bucky, who had become much quieter and more reserved since Steve had hauled him from the . . . factory, he called it insistently in his mind, in Kreischberg. 

Dernier returned, grimacing at the joke he had clearly just missed. “ _Rien_ ,” he said, and set a single elderly potato, a handful of rags, and a mostly empty tin of axle grease on the floor. He considered his haul for a moment. “ _Merde._ ” 

No one needed Jones to translate that last observation. 

Steve considered Dernier’s findings, and an idea hit him. Out in the rural Austrian countryside, it was easy to forget what day it was, but all of a sudden, it came back. He pulled out his pocketknife, picked up the potato, and began to chunk out a series of small holes along its long axis. 

The Howling Commandos watched, intrigued. After a moment, Bucky smiled, and it was a real one, not one of the grim, sardonic smirks he’d been wearing too often recently. “Best idea any of us has had all day,” he said. “But how are you going to light it? I don’t see that Dernier picked up any candles.” 

“An old trick my ma taught me,” Steve replied. “Watch.” He finished gouging the holes in the potato and took his knife to the rags, cutting four small scraps. These he rolled in the axle grease and stuffed into the holes in the potato, arranging them so that a corner poked up out of each hole. 

“Ma sometimes did this if we wanted to read in the evenings, and she didn’t want to waste the electric,” he explained. “Anyway, it’s supposed to be an oil lamp, right?” 

“Rogers, I swear.” Bucky smiled and shook his head. “Look at you, making a holiday right on Hitler’s home turf.” 

“I like the sound of that,” Dum Dum said. “Want to fill the rest of us in on it?” 

“I just remembered that it’s the fourth night of Hanukkah,” Steve said. “This won’t be much, but at least we’ll have a bit of light. That’s really the important thing.” 

Falsworth nodded. “That sounds most welcome. Is there . . . anything that we should do?” 

Steve dug through his ration pack and came up with a packet of matches. He poked one last hole in the potato, shaved a little bit off the bottom, and set it on the ground. “I think that’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll light it and see if this works. Bucky, you want to do the blessings?” 

He struck the match and touched it gently to the first bit of grease-soaked rag. The rag fizzled and sparked, and for a moment, Steve was afraid that it wouldn’t catch. But then a small, steady flame took hold and grew. The threads of the rag sucked up the grease, and the flame held steady. All of the soldiers drew closer to the little light, smiling in its glow. 

As Steve lit the other rag lights, Bucky chanted the blessings quickly in Hebrew, and then translated them into English. When he was done, Jones translated into French. Steve stuck the match into the potato as a shammash, and set the makeshift potato menorah on the floor of the barn. 

The match burned out quickly, and the four little rag lights didn’t offer all that much light, and barely any heat. The cold rations in their cans didn’t taste any better, and there was no gelt and no dreidel to play with. But somehow, the glow of the menorah provided comfort anyway, illuminating the seven war-weary faces that huddled around it. Steve and Bucky told the story of another war, and the miracle of another little bit of light that shone from the middle of destruction. 

Morita smiled. “That’s a nice story,” he said. “Kind of gives you hope while you’re fighting.” 

Bucky nodded. “My ma says that she stopped getting letters from Aunt Fanny in Kovno a few years ago. But maybe . . . you hear all these stories. Maybe they’re out there in the woods, and maybe my cousins are fighting with the partisans. Maybe they’re in a bunker in the woods and they have a little menorah, too.” 

“Maybe even one made out of a potato,” Dum Dum said softly, but with just enough spark to make Bucky laugh. 

One by one, the Howling Commandos stretched their hands over the menorah, and the rag lights gave just enough warmth that they could feel it. Slowly, they finished their rations, and Steve began to consider how to assign watches for the night. Morita excused himself briefly, and went out into the night. 

“Cold as a witch’s tit out there,” he said when he returned. 

“We can feel it,” Falsworth said. “Shut the door!” 

Morita turned to do so. But just before he pushed the door closed, a little gust of ice-cold air blew through the barn. At that very moment, one of the rag lights guttered and spit a spark into the air. Before any of them could stop it, the wind carried the spark over to the large pile of hay behind them. 

In an instant, all the soldiers were on their feet. Steve wondered if the hay might be damp enough that the spark would die, but the farmer had stored it too well. A few of the loose strands burst into flame. 

“Oh, shit,” Bucky said. 

Jones looked around wildly. “Is there a bucket of water?” he asked. “Or sand. Sand would work, too.”

Dernier and Jones rushed off to look for fire extinguishing materials. Steve, Bucky and Morita beat at the flames with the rest of Dernier’s rags, while Dum Dum and Falsworth tried to create a firebreak by brushing the unburnt hay away from the fire. In a single moment of panicked clarity, Steve noticed that there seemed to be an awful lot of loose hay. He had always thought that hay came in bales – at least, the hay delivered to the city for the horses that pulled delivery wagons did – but maybe country hay was kept loose. 

Certainly, there was lots of it, and it seemed to be all over the place. As fast as the soldiers tried to put them out, small fires seemed to crop up everywhere. Dernier and Jones arrived with buckets of sand, but Dernier’s foot came down on the potato menorah. He fell onto his back, spilling the sand all over the barn floor. The menorah flew up over Dum Dum and Falsworth’s firebreak and ignited more hay. Smoke began to fill the barn, and sparks flew on the wind created by the fire itself. 

Bucky leaped up on the haystack to chase a spark, and his foot came down with a clunk. All of the soldiers froze. Whether they had spent their childhoods in the city or the country, they all knew that haystacks should not make clunking sounds. Bucky froze, and slowly looked down at his feet. 

“I’m standing on something,” he said. “What do you think the odds are that Austrian farmers stack their hay on shelves?” 

Dum Dum brushed away an armful of hay near him. “Cap,” he said. “Look at this.” 

A cold blue light shone through the hay. It seemed even more striking in the midst of the growing inferno all around them. Steve glanced up at Bucky, and a memory of the weapons factory in Kreischberg floated through his mind. The soldiers stopped trying to put the fire out and concentrated instead on brushing hay to the barn floor. In a few seconds, they had uncovered a case full of sleek rifles and cannons, all pulsating with blue light. 

“Looks like Agent Carter was right after all,” Morita said. 

Steve looked at the fire, which had spread beyond their collective ability to control it, and at the cache of HYDRA weapons. As the group commander, he had to give the order, and there was only one order left that he could give. “Bucky, get down,” he said. “Everyone, get your gear, and get out of this barn. Now!” 

Bucky jumped off of the box he was standing on, and the Howling Commandos fled into the cold dark night. The only other place to go was the farmhouse, which Steve decided was most likely deserted, since no one had come running out to investigate the fire in the barn. 

Dernier paused and rooted around in his pack. Gabe yelled something in French at him that, if Steve had been yelling, would have been to ask what the hell Dernier thought he was doing. Dernier pulled a grenade out of his pack and waved it at them. Steve nodded, and pointed at the low picket fence that enclosed the garden next to the farmhouse. 

“Get behind there,” he ordered. 

Dernier pulled the pin, paused, and hurled the grenade. It sailed in a long, lazy arc, and landed just at the door of the barn, where it burst in a cloud of smoke. Steve had only an instant to worry that it hadn’t done any good, and that Dernier had just wasted perfectly good ordnance. Then, the entire barn rocketed straight up into the air on an enormous fireball. It crashed down amidst a shower of sparks, and the shock wave bowled the Howling Commandos completely off their feet. The barn collapsed into gouts of flame and an array of smaller explosions that rippled, crackled, and lit up the sky like the Independence Day fireworks that were always the best part of Steve’s birthday. 

The soldiers stared, completely mesmerized, until something rocketed towards them, trailing sparkling fire. Half of the men leaped one way, the other half leaped the other way, and the flaming debris crashed through one of the farmhouse windows. An instant later, Steve threw up his shield to deflect shards of glass as an explosion inside the farmhouse blew out all of the windows. 

Caught between an exploding barn and a burning farmhouse, any hope of secrecy that they had once had was gone forever. Gabe pulled out a portable radio and tried to tune it as they ran down the road. After a bit of shaking and banging the radio against his leg, he got a weak signal and called for help. Steve could just barely make out a voice yelling in English through waves of static. 

“Mission successful,” Gabe said, as another series of explosions lit up the sky behind him. “Request extraction now!” 

There was a burst of static from the radio. 

“Five miles out from Hornstein,” Gabe said. “About two hundred yards away from the biggest fireworks show in the area. You can’t miss it.” 

Another burst of static, and the radio died. Gabe smiled in relief. “We done good, guys,” he said. “We get a ride home.” 

As if in reply, the farmhouse’s roof caught fire with a whoosh. The Howling Commandos sat down to wait. A heat wave from the burning farm rolled over them, and Steve giggled a little at the thought that, not only had they done their jobs, but they would be warm while they waited to go back to base.

  

 

The next morning, the Commandos sat down in the mess tent. The warmed-over mystery meat tasted especially good this morning. Steve was relieved to learn that they had all made it out with relatively minor injuries from being tossed around in the blasts. Falsworth smiled beneath a bandage wrapped around his head. 

“So,” he said, glancing between his Captain and his Sergeant. “That was Hanukkah, was it?” 

There was a moment of silence, and then Bucky nearly spit a mouthful of coffee all over the table. He choked a little as he tried to swallow it, and excused himself from the table for a moment. 

Dum Dum smiled broadly. “You told us all about the miracle of light, Captain,” he pointed out. “But it looks to me like you got one thing wrong. You told us that the light came after the battle!” 

“Yeah, and you said that was just the fourth night,” Morita added. “There’s what, four more nights? You gotta plan big to top that little display.” 

Steve chuckled. “Some miracles are bigger than others,” he said with a shrug. “But we did say it’s a holiday about light. And there was light!” 

Bucky returned to the table and collapsed at his seat, laughing uproariously. “This was the best Hanukkah party ever, Rogers!” he cried. “This is one we’re all going to tell our grandchildren about. Just picture it. I’m going to be a little old man with white hair and a cane, and the fucking cutest little round kiddos you’ve ever seen will be sitting on my knee, and they’ll ask me, Zayde, tell us a story about the war. And I’ll say, settle down, children, and let your ol’ Zayde tell you the Hanukkah Adventure of the Howling Commandos and the Exploding Potato Menorah!” 

Later, after they all stopped laughing, they agreed that this was a story that they would all make sure to remember for the grandchildren they would have someday.


	5. The Fifth Candle:  December 24, 2011

  1. **The Fifth Candle: December 24, 2011**



  

 

Steve studied the folded piece of paper in his hand. Shuls hadn’t given out paper bulletins when he was a kid, and he couldn’t remember how people had communicated events and dates. Of course, there hadn’t been quite so many events and dates to remember, which probably helped. There were cooking classes, book groups, all sorts of committees that people could join, and someone had even mentioned a gardening group that would resume meeting once the weather grew warm enough. Steve wondered when shuls had become so big and rich that they could hold classes and events just like settlement houses. 

As he skimmed the list of activities, his eye caught on one thing that made him smile. There would be a Hanukkah party at the synagogue tomorrow night. That was something that Steve remembered from his childhood. There was a little paragraph describing all of the party games and enticements. In addition to the menorah lighting, there would be a singalong, Fishing For Dreidels, cookie decorating, a menorah-themed ring toss, a scavenger hunt, and more!!, emphasized with two exclamation points. A final line, printed in italics, assured him that the party would be _Fun for All Ages_. He wondered if “All Ages” included ex-servicemen who were twenty-seven years old but had been born ninety-three years ago. 

The crowd swept him along into the next room, where the coffee and cookies that made up the usual Friday night oneg awaited them. Steve wound up off to the side of the crowd, not quite noticing his surroundings until a woman gave a friendly laugh. He looked up from the party announcement and saw a woman whose name, he recalled, was Jennifer Richter. Jennifer smiled at him. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But you and Emma just standing there together, off in your own little worlds . . .” 

Steve looked down at his side, and sure enough, there was Jennifer’s daughter Emma, standing next to him, deeply engrossed in a paperback novel that had a picture of a wizard fighting a dragon on the cover. Emma glanced up, saw Steve, and rolled her eyes at him, tossing her head to indicate that her mother was the actual target of her annoyance. Steve smiled. 

“I was just looking at this thing about the Hanukkah party,” he said. “I was wondering if adults could come, or if it’s just for the kids.” 

Jennifer Richter laughed. “Oh, it’s for everyone,” she assured him. “There’s food and Israeli dancing for the grownups, and they always need someone to supervise the kids’ activities.” 

A long-dormant memory stirred in the back of Steve’s mind. “Make sure they don’t play dreidel for nickels?” 

“Oh, don’t even get me started,” Jennifer said with a wave of her hand. “I won a whole pile of nickels from my aunt when I was about ten, and my mother made me give half of them back.” 

Steve smiled. “Lucky you,” he said. “Getting to keep half a pile of nickels.” 

Jennifer considered this for a moment. “I guess you’re right, now that you mention it,” she said. “Half a pile of nickels is better than none. So I’ll see you at the party tomorrow?” 

And just like that, Steve had plans for Saturday night. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the prospect of Israeli dancing, but when he asked Cantor Landauer about it, she assured him that it would be much easier than he feared.

  

 

The next evening, Steve tucked the little menorah that he had bought a few weeks earlier into his coat pocket along with six candles. He took the elevator down into the grand main lobby of the Tower, which contained both a large Christmas tree that sparkled with ornaments and an equally large menorah with its electric candles already lit. Clearly, Tony spared no expense when holidays rolled around. Just the other day, Steve had heard Tony and his friend Colonel Rhodes discussing plans to install something else in the lobby for a holiday called Kwanzaa that Steve had never heard of. Steve just hoped that whatever new decoration they were planning would fit into the lobby. He stepped out into the chilly Manhattan evening and headed for the subway. 

As Jennifer Richter had warned him, Steve was pressed into service as soon as he arrived at the shul. Steve ended up supervising a game of “Pin the Shammash on the Menorah.” For most of the first hour of the party, he blindfolded small children, gently turned them around a few times, and gave them a gentle nudge in the direction of a picture of a menorah taped to the wall. The children wobbled and stumbled, and a few fell down and needed to be picked up, dusted off, and sent back with a pat on the head. But most of them managed to stick the cardboard candle somewhere on the picture, and Steve made sure that everyone got at least a small prize, with a nicer toy for the child who actually won the game. 

An hour into the party, some of the adults carried tables covered in tinfoil into the social hall. Parents hurried to retrieve their children, and everyone gathered around the tables, looking for a spot to place the menorahs they had brought with them. Candles were passed around for those who hadn’t brought their own, and boxes of matches appeared on the tables. Cantor Landauer and Rabbi Bloch had the shul’s big menorah set up on its own table at the head of the room. Rabbi Bloch gave a signal, and everyone reached for matches. He lit the shul’s menorah, and Cantor Landauer led the congregation in the blessings. Lights appeared all up and down the tables, reflected by the tinfoil table coverings, until the whole area seemed to be one long streak of candlelight. 

Then Cantor Landauer picked up her guitar, and began to play Hanukkah songs. She started with “Maoz Tzur,” and everyone joined in the singing. Steve hadn’t sung that song in a while, since it hadn’t been safe to sing it out in the battlefields of Central Europe, but he found that the words came back easily. Next, she played “Khanike, Oy Khanike,” which Steve remembered from his childhood, except that people apparently sang it in English nowadays rather than the Yiddish that Steve recalled. After that, she sang “I Have A Little Dreidel,” and then something in Hebrew that Steve guessed was another dreidel song, and then something that Steve had never heard before, in a language that sounded like Spanish. Eventually, he gave up trying to sing along, and just listened, enjoying the music and the sounds of the congregation singing, more or less on key. 

While they were singing, people began to carry trays in from the kitchen. They set them down on the food tables and removed plastic covers to reveal heaps of latkes, clever little dreidels made of chocolate, marshmallows, and pretzel sticks, and ponchkes. Everyone hurried over to the food, and this part of the party was just as Steve remembered it from his childhood, except that, when he asked someone to pass him a ponchke, he received a few puzzled looks until an older woman explained that they were “sufganiyot” now. 

Whatever the name, they were still as good as Steve remembered them. He bit into one and sneezed as his nose was covered in powdered sugar. 

“Gesundheit!” someone said. 

Steve looked around and saw Josh Englander, with his arm wrapped around Mike Shapiro. They smiled and raised glasses of grape juice at him. Steve had known Josh and Mike for a few weeks now, and although he wasn’t quite ready to call them friends, he did enjoy seeing them at shul most weeks. It had taken him less than ten seconds to figure out that they were queer and together, and he was thrilled to see how . . . well, how _normal_ everyone else seemed to find that. No one made a fuss, and no one treated them any differently than any of the other couples who showed up after work on Friday nights. The future did have its bright side, Steve had to admit. 

It had taken him significantly longer to identify the unpleasant, hollow feeling that sat in his stomach whenever he talked to them as jealousy. It wasn’t that he wanted either of them; in fact, they were so well suited to each other that Steve and, he suspected, most of the rest of the congregation thought of them as Josh-and-Mike, a single, unbreakable unit. Rather, Steve told himself, he was jealous of their open, warm affection for each other, the security that came with loving and being loved and knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was one other person who cared about them and would stay with them to the end of – well, through all that life could throw at them. 

Sometimes, he considered that there might be something more specific to his jealousy. But, whether or not that was true, there was nothing that Steve could do about it. It was better not even to think about it, to spare himself at least a little pain. In fact, it was best not to think about jealousy at all, and just enjoy knowing that people like Josh-and-Mike existed in the world and that the world now had a place for them. 

Josh kissed Mike on the nose and left the social hall. Mike smiled after him, and then turned to Steve. 

“Enjoying yourself?” 

“I am,” Steve said with a smile. “I would have loved a party like this when I was a kid.” 

Mike thought about that for a moment. “Didn’t they have Hanukkah parties?” 

“Oh, we did. Just not such big ones with so many games.” 

Mike laughed, but he asked no more questions, because Josh had returned. He was hiding something behind his back and was grinning crazily. One hand remained firmly behind his back, but the other hand revealed a glass and a spoon from the shul’s kitchen. He set the glass on the table and tapped it with the spoon until everyone stopped talking and looked towards him. Josh took a deep breath, and got down on one knee. 

“Michael Alan Shapiro,” he began, and then had to clear his throat. Mike stared at him, puzzlement and vague hope chasing each other across his face. 

Josh found his voice again. “You have been my love and my best friend for the best years of my life, so far,” he said. “Together, we’ve found a place in the world, made a home, survived cab drivers, aliens, and incontinent pigeons.” 

Mike laughed a little, but his eyes were starting to get teary. Josh brought his hand out from behind his back and opened it to reveal a twist tie. 

“Michael Alan Shapiro,” he said. “We’ve been together through thick and thin. Today, thanks to the Legislature and Governor Cuomo, I’m asking you . . . will you tie the knot with me?” He held out the twist tie, and several people sitting near them laughed appreciatively. 

Mike buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he emerged, his eyes shone. “Yes!” he cried. “Yes, I will marry you.” 

Josh slumped a little in relief, but rallied enough to wind the twist tie around Mike’s finger. “I’ll get you a real ring soon,” he said softly. 

Mike kissed him, and the congregation applauded. Rabbi Bloch stood up and signaled to the shul’s pickup klezmer band, which had been setting up in the corner. 

“It’s time for dancing!” he announced. “We have all sorts of simchas to celebrate, so everybody up on your feet!” 

The band struck up a lively tune, and people rushed to push tables and chairs out of the way to make a dance floor. Cantor Landauer pulled Steve to his feet. “Okay,” she said. “Get out there and have fun!” 

Steve gave a nervous laugh. “I can’t – Cantor, I can’t dance.” 

“Yes, you can,” she said. “It’s a party. Everyone can dance at a party.” And she gave him a little nudge into the whirling circle of dancers. 

 

 

Steve danced until he was dizzy, and then excused himself for a glass of grape juice. Just after he sat down, Josh and Mike came to join him. He smiled at them, still buzzing from the excitement of the party. “Congratulations, you guys,” he said. “Are you planning to sign insurance policies for each other and everything?” 

Josh and Mike glanced at each other, puzzled, and then Mike suddenly nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “I forgot. Maybe you don’t know about this. It’ll be a real, legal marriage. Full rights.” 

Steve stared at him. He’d been amazed at seeing how easily queer couples walked through life in the future, but the idea of actual, real marriage was something that had never crossed his mind. 

“The legislature approved it just this summer,” Josh said, “and the governor signed it. It’s totally legal. No civil union bullshit. We’re getting the full ride. I talked to the rabbi, and he’s on board. We’ll have a chuppah and everything.” 

A slow, delighted smile spread across Steve’s face. “That’s . . . that’s amazing,” he choked out. “I’m sorry. I thought . . . I didn’t realize . . .” Now that he thought about it, he’d been too deep in his own grief to pay attention to much of anything beyond basic survival for most of the summer. Even now, life didn’t quite seem fully real. But Josh and Mike were real, and they were right in front of him, and, somehow, they were going to get married. “That’s amazing,” he said, repeating himself because it was the only word that came to mind. 

Neither Josh nor Mike seemed to mind. “Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Mike said. “We do have some nice things here.” 

“Actually,” Josh said, “there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” He glanced over at Mike, and a shadow passed over his face. “I know I haven’t known you very long, and maybe you’ll think this is too much to ask, but I have to ask anyway. I . . .” his voice cracked. He grasped Mike’s hand and started again. 

“Maybe just a bit of background first,” he said. “I wasn’t planning to propose tonight, but, you know, the moment just seemed too perfect, and I wasn’t going to let it slip away. I nearly lost Mike a few months ago.” 

Steve glanced over at Mike, who seemed fine. Mike gave a reassuring little smile and nod. 

“I work in a bank on 42nd Street,” he said. “I’m a personal banker. I help people set up accounts and transfer money and things like that. And then, one day, at work . . . these – these reptile aliens crashed in and rounded everybody up in the lobby. I thought – well, I was never so terrified in my life.”

Josh clasped Mike’s hand and swallowed nervously. “I work in SoHo,” he explained. “Ran all the way up to Midtown once I heard what was going on. Someone mentioned a bank full of hostages, and I thought – I thought the best thing in my life was going to be wiped out in that instant. Mike was going to be dead, and there was nothing that I could do about it, at all.” 

“But I wasn’t,” Mike said. 

Steve could barely breathe. He knew what was coming. 

“They were pointing these ray guns at us,” Mike went on. “And then this guy, this . . . cartoon character from the Fifties or something, leaps in the window and just wipes the floor with the aliens. I – legit, I knew I was going to die. And there was, there was Captain America, just like in the cartoons, just like I watched when I was a kid. I ran so fast, and I don’t know how, but I found Josh again, and . . .” 

“He came back to me,” Josh said. “There were people that didn’t come back, but Mike did. And he had this amazing story to tell.” 

Mike smiled. “And imagine my surprise when that same guy, that cartoon hero who saved my ass, just showed up for Friday night services. I mean, who knew?” 

At that point, Steve didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and the choking sound that escaped from his throat could have been an attempt at either. 

“You saved Mike’s life,” Josh said. “Without you, I wouldn’t be able to marry him, no matter what the legislature and the governor did. Would you – I know this is asking a lot, but, Steve, I really want you to hold one of the chuppah posts on our wedding day. I want you to be there.”

Steve’s throat closed up, and he could barely get words out. He nodded. “I’d be honored.” 

Mike gave a watery smile. “Maybe . . . leave the shield at home, though. I’m thinking more sharp gray suits with yellow and white accents.” 

“Whatever you want, honey,” Josh said. “I’m just happy that I have you.”

 

 

_A large brass menorah glowed. Its candles illuminated a chuppah of white silk, turning it into clouds. The light glowed through the fabric, and shone along the fringes that hung down from the edges. The mahogany poles gleamed in the light.  
_

_Steve stood under the chuppah, dressed in the nicest suit he had ever owned. Music played, just quietly enough that he couldn’t make out the melody. He gazed into the light of the menorah, and it resolved itself into a sea of faces.  
_

_Arnie Roth and Rose Klein sat in the front row, next to Gabe Jones and Jacques Dernier. Mr. Barnes laughed about something with Dum Dum, and Natasha Romanoff held Ida Barnes on her lap. For some reason, Steve’s mother sat with Tony Stark. Mrs. Barnes looked tiny, squeezed in between Thor and the Hulk, and Becca Barnes was flirting outrageously with both Clint Barton and Jim Morita. Falsworth was applauding as Helen and Dottie and Mildred danced for him in a corner. Eli Cramer and Charlie Rudnik were exchanging stories with Josh Englander and Mike Shapiro.  
_

_The candlelight grew more intense, and Steve had to turn away from its brilliance. Cantor Landauer was at his side. Steve couldn’t remember whether she had been there before. She was saying something to him, but a choir was singing, and he couldn’t hear her.  
_

_He felt as though he had been waiting beneath that chuppah for an extraordinarily long time.  
_

_Cantor Landauer’s hands burned like fire on his shoulders as she turned him around. He tried to resist, because the menorah was behind him, and its luminous brilliance would blind him. But as he turned, the glow faded, and he could see a figure standing in the distance. The crowd melted away, and the figure moved forward, nearly close enough for Steve to see._

When Steve woke up, his heart was pounding, and he couldn’t quite catch his breath, but he didn’t have the cold sweat that came with his nightmares. He looked around, trying to re-orient himself. City lights glowed through his windows, and he saw his bedroom in the Tower, and his shield propped up in a corner of the room. 

Without really thinking about it, Steve fumbled the drawer of his night table open and rooted around inside. His hand brushed against his old compass, and his fingers scrabbled up a small photograph. It was too dark to see Bucky’s smile, but he could feel the paper in his hand, and he knew the image by heart. He held it for a few moments, running his thumb along the edges. After a while, his breathing calmed down. He set the photograph on top of the night table, closed the drawer, and settled back down to sleep.


	6. The Sixth Candle:  December 2, 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of a heads-up for this chapter. This one features the STRIKE team. In what I hope is not too tremendous a spoiler at this point, the STRIKE team members are not nice people. They will be throwing around some gender/orientation/racial/religious slurs. Be forewarned.

  1. **The Sixth Candle: December 2, 2013**



  

 

Some days, it was hard to get out of bed in the morning. When it was cold, and frost glittered on the grass and the sidewalk, when it was so late in the year that the mornings were still as dark as midnight, it was hard to leave a soft nest of pillows and blankets warmed to just the right temperature. The thought of sitting up, of encountering a breath of unwarmed air, and putting feet down onto the cold floor, was almost unbearable. It was much easier to drift along, just awake enough to enjoy the warmth and the softness and the dark and the quiet. 

Steve wished that it were one of those days. It would be far better than how he actually felt this morning. He remembered that on a normal “hard to get out of bed” day, the feeling of nestling down among the covers, putting off the morning, felt pleasurable and indulgent, or perhaps decadently lazy. Or maybe it felt irresponsible and lethargic. But at least it felt like something. Steve had felt nothing but an unending gray numbness ever since he had received his assignment to Washington to lead the new STRIKE team. 

A SHIELD counselor had met with him briefly just before he had moved. She hadn’t had much useful to say to him, except to observe that the second year after a loss was often harder than the first year, and that if he felt that he needed medical support, he should contact the D.C. SHIELD office, and they would take care of it. Steve had learned the first observation back in 1940, thirty years before the counselor had even been born. As for the second part, Steve wasn’t sick, and he suspected that there was not much that SHIELD medical could do for him if he were. 

His main problem, he thought, was that he missed the Avengers. They were odd people, certainly, and they didn’t always see eye to eye, but he had come to know them. They had looked out for each other, found little ways to make life easier for each other, and had stuck together against threats ranging from aliens to the troubled memories of their previous lives. They had been . . . well, friends. Steve supposed he should be glad that Clint and Natasha had been assigned as ancillary STRIKE team members, but he didn’t see them as often as he had hoped. 

Instead, his second-in-command was a hard-jawed career military man named Brock Rumlow, a name that reminded Steve of a sound effect and that he had a hard time imagining someone actually giving to a newborn. He admired Rumlow’s discipline and hardworking nature, but there was something forbidding about him. He couldn’t manage to engage Rumlow in ordinary conversation, much less the easy camaraderie that he had had with the Howling Commandos or his quirky bond with the Avengers. Steve’s chief lieutenant was an impenetrable wall, and the rest of the men followed Rumlow’s lead. 

Well, lying in bed all day wouldn’t change that. With a supreme effort, Steve pulled back the covers, and made himself get up and change into his jogging clothes. He wasn’t sure how much the running did for him physically, but at least it got the blood moving and made him feel something. 

When he arrived back home, the pretty blonde nurse who lived in the apartment next door was just leaving for work. She complimented his menorah, although it was clear that she had no idea what it was, and he made the effort to make friendly small talk about it. His mother had always maintained that it was rude to turn down friendliness when it was offered. And there was something about the nurse that caught his attention. He couldn’t quite pin down what it was, but something about the way she held her head, or the way she moved, seemed familiar, as if he had seen it before, long ago. 

Briefly, he wondered if he should try to get to know her, but his willpower shriveled away at the thought of making any effort beyond what was needed to get through each day. 

While he was thinking about it, he cleaned out his menorah and stuck fresh candles in it. All the holidays were early this year, which he supposed was contributing to, or at least was not helping with, his sense of dislocation. Although, since he had no one in Washington to spend Thanksgiving with, it had been nice to light a Hanukkah candle that evening instead.

  

 

Steve arrived at the Triskelion to learn that today was a marine training day for the STRIKE team. This news did not improve his mood, as he was distinctly not fond of immersing himself in cold water for long periods of time. But he was a soldier, and orders were orders. He went to the locker room to change into his tactical gear. 

Half of the squad members were already there, boasting loudly to each other about the bitches they had fucked after they had gone out on a bar crawl on Saturday night. This was the sort of conversation that could go on for hours, becoming less factual and more imaginatively embellished as the day went on. Steve had no desire to listen to crude descriptions of the female anatomy all day, so he followed the boasting to the correct locker bay and leaned against a bank of lockers. Three half-dressed junior agents sat on a bench laughing at a description of what sounded like a distinctly unpleasant experience for a lady. Steve gave them a minute to notice him. When that failed, he cleared his throat. 

Instantly, the three agents stopped talking and snapped to attention. Steve raised his eyebrows at them and let them stew for a moment or two. 

“Good morning,” he said. “We’re on marine training today, so make sure you dress warmly.” 

The junior agents didn’t break attention, but they relaxed minutely. Steve paused for a careful moment. 

“And always remember,” he said. “Even though you’re not technically members of the armed forces, as SHIELD agents, you represent the United States of America. As your commander, I expect you to conduct yourselves as officers and gentlemen. As you were.” 

Steve walked away to change. As he went, he heard one of the agents, who clearly did not understand how well sound carried in a locker room, spit out, “Captain Fucking America. What a faggot.” 

That had definitely crossed a line, but Steve had no energy to get up and deal with it. Instead, he dropped down onto the bench and sighed. 

“Kids these days, right?” 

Steve looked up to see Brock Rumlow setting his gear bag down on the bench beside Steve’s. “Little rough around the edges for you, Cap?” Rumlow asked, flashing a quick grin. 

Steve shrugged. “Honestly, change a few words, and it’s no worse than anything I heard in boot camp,” he admitted. “But I try to maintain a few standards.” 

Rumlow snorted. “Good luck with that.” He unbuttoned his shirt and began to change. “You know,” he said, “they’re not bad kids, those three.” 

“Never said they were.” 

“They’re just . . . you know, good ol’ boys. Know what I mean?” 

Steve sighed. “Yes, I do. That doesn’t mean they don’t have to show a little respect to the women in their lives.” 

“Ah, come on, Cap,” Rumlow said with a laugh. “Look at where we are. If you can’t make locker room talk in an actual locker room, where can you do it?” 

Steve had no good answer for that. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t leave the locker room, okay?” 

Rumlow laughed and put up his hands in mock surrender. “Sure, Cap. Whatever floats your boat.” He turned away, and both men continued changing.

  

 

The training exercises were scheduled to take place on a ship anchored in the Delaware Bay, off of a town that Steve felt was a little too aptly named Slaughter Beach. He counted noses as the STRIKE team boarded the Quinjet that would take them out to the training site, and was pleased to see that Natasha was included on the roster for this exercise. She was reserved and more than a little bit impenetrable, but he enjoyed working with her, and she had been kind to him ever since she had met him, which was more than he could say for the rest of the STRIKE team. A quick glance at the training schedule showed her taking part in parachute, rope work, and hostage rescue drills, as well as the marine infiltration exercise that the entire team would conduct. Once the STRIKE team was on board the Quinjet, Steve signaled to the pilot, and they rose up into the air. 

The flight to Slaughter Beach was short, so Steve started the briefing along the way. He glanced at his notes. 

“Today’s group exercise is multiple hostage rescue training. Working on intelligence acquired from Israelite – excuse me, _Israeli_ – sources . . .” Steve shook his head a little as he continued. It had taken him an embarrassingly long time to learn that the word was, in fact, “Israeli.” 

“Yeah, just say _Zio_ ,” Rollins muttered. “It’s shorter, and we all know what you mea – ow!” He jerked his leg up. Steve noticed that Natasha, who was seated next to Rollins, looked remarkably innocent and intent on the instructions that her commanding officer was giving. 

“Watch out for static electricity,” Steve said, keeping his face as deadpan as he could. “The air up here is pretty dry, even though we’re out near the Delaware Bay.” 

He made a mental note to check in with Commander Hill. He hadn’t fought in a war, lost Bucky, and died just to have to listen to one of his own men spew unprompted insults.

  

 

One of the nicer differences between training exercises and actual missions, right up there with the much lower risk of people getting hurt or killed, was that SHIELD had scheduled a lunch break. Steve wasn’t stupid, and he knew that part of the purpose of the lunch break was so that the STRIKE team’s training partners could clear away the debris from the hostage rescue training and set the stage for the smaller drills that would occupy the afternoon. But he did appreciate the opportunity to find a corner away from the rest of the team for a moment of relative quiet. They had even been provided with box lunches, which were better than the rations Steve had eaten while on missions with the Howling Commandos, although that was not a particularly high bar to clear. 

Steve set his box lunch on the floor next to him and picked up his evaluation sheet. He had to turn in his estimation of their individual performances in the exercise anyway, and he thought that this particular task would help to send the message that he was not to be disturbed for the duration of the lunch break. Knowing that he needed the nutrition to keep going through the exercises, he forced himself to choke down his tuna sandwich, although he hadn’t been hungry for a long time. 

He hadn’t actually been disturbed for a while, not counting the moment when Natasha had glided by, swiped the packet of trail mix from his lunch, and replaced it with a packet that Steve guessed contained a piece of cake. But, since Natasha hadn’t actually said anything, and it was a trade that Steve appreciated, he didn’t count it as disturbance. He did consider giving her an extra mark for stealth on the evaluation form, but decided that that would be gilding the lily. Instead, he opened the packet and ate the slice of marble pound cake that was inside. Objectively, it was terrible pound cake that had definitely suffered from having been enclosed in a packet, but Natasha had given it to him, and Steve enjoyed it far more than he had enjoyed any other part of his box lunch. 

He had just settled back down to work again when Brock Rumlow strode over and plopped down next to him. “Not eating with the rest of us plebes, Captain?” he asked. 

Steve painted a smile on his face. “Work to do. Being the CO isn’t all fun and games.” 

“Aww.” Rumlow grinned. “The men miss you.” 

“No they don’t.” 

Rumlow shrugged. “I guess you got me there. But, really, bring your lunch over. Do you want them to think you’re all standoffish and judgemental?” 

“They think that already,” Steve said. “Certainly the judgemental part.” 

“Yeah, well, we still have to work together, and it ain’t easy going from top-ranked SHIELD operative to one of Captain America’s backup boys.” Rumlow poked Steve in his writing arm. “How about you and me chat, okay? Make it at least look like an officer thing. You got any plans for the holidays?” 

Steve put down his pen and clipboard. Clearly, Rumlow was not going to leave him alone. “Not really,” he said. “They’re all so early this year, I didn’t have a chance to make arrangements.” He wasn’t sure he would have had the energy to do so under other circumstances, but he didn’t mention that part. 

Rumlow gave him a puzzled frown. “What, did that ice nap freeze your brains?” he asked. “Thanksgiving, end of November. Christmas, twenty-fifth of December. Just like always. What do you have to think about?” 

“Not Christmas,” Steve said. “Hanukkah. It moves around. This year, it started the night before Thanksgiving. It’s never been so early.” 

Rumlow’s face now had a strange, unreadable expression. “Hanukkah?” he said. “That’s that Jewish holiday, right?” 

“Yeah.” Steve swallowed past the sinking feeling in his gut. 

“Captain America, huh,” Rumlow said thoughtfully. “Well. I ain’t a Jew, so it’s not like I have any idea about that sort of stuff. You still coming to the SHIELD holiday party?” 

“I didn’t know there was one.” 

“Well, it’s on account of you people that they call it a holiday party, so you might as well,” Rumlow said. “I mean, we’re all Americans here, right? Romanoff got her citizenship, so she counts, too. We don’t need to worry about any of that . . . you know . . . funny stuff. Right?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “I was born in Brooklyn, Rumlow. I’m as American as you are.” 

“You ever been to Israel?” Rumlow asked. “I hear all the Israeli chicks are super hot, and they’ll do anything. You know, for the right . . .” He caught the glare that Steve was aiming at him, and, mercifully, stopped talking. 

“I’ve never been to Israel,” Steve said. “It didn’t exist when I was growing up, and it’s not like I’ve taken an extended vacation since I . . . came back. I couldn’t tell you about the women, but I imagine they’re just people, like women in all countries.” 

Rumlow laughed and clapped Steve on the shoulder. “Rogers, I think they forgot to thaw out your sense of humor. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were queer.” He thought for a moment. “You’re not, right? I mean . . . that’d be . . . Look, just . . . keep this all quiet, and we’ll do just fine, know what I mean? Captain America the All-American Soldier, right?” 

Steve looked Rumlow in the eye, and a chill washed through him. “I do know what you mean,” he said. “I have work to do now.” 

Fortunately Rumlow took the hint, and walked away. Steve finished the evaluation forms, and sincerely wished that there were some way to indicate on the forms that his second-in-command was a real chucklehead, and that Agent Romanoff was far better suited for the job. 

He checked his watch and saw, to his relief, that the lunch break was over. Taking a deep breath, he strode out to meet the STRIKE team and handed out schedules. “Chow time’s done,” he said. “Time for small group drills. Check your assignments, and get going!”

  

 

By the time Steve hauled himself home that evening, he was exhausted. He’d been so tired recently that he wondered if the serum had begun to wear off. But, he decided, after the day he’d just had, anyone would have a right to be tired. At least he didn’t live in a SHIELD dorm. He could come home to an actual apartment, which was more than a lot of people had. And there were six candles in his menorah waiting to be lit. He was downright lucky, if he thought about it. 

Briefly, he wondered if he ought to invite the nurse next door – he thought her name might be Kate – over for the candles, since she had seemed interested. But he didn’t see her on the stairs, and he couldn’t imagine just knocking on her door, not when they hadn’t been properly introduced, or when he didn’t know her all that well, or when she might reject the invitation and mock him about keeping a strange, foreign custom. 

Instead, Steve let himself into his own apartment, turned on the lights, and stuck a frozen turkey dinner in the oven to heat up. While it warmed, he took the box of matches from its drawer and went to the menorah. For a moment, he contemplated moving it from the window to the coffee table, where it would be less conspicuous. But the nurse next door had said that she had enjoyed seeing the candles glow in the window. Maybe she was working late tonight, and she might come home hoping to see the candles. Steve couldn’t disappoint her, not with something so small. The menorah would stay in the window, where it belonged. 

He lit the candles and said the blessings, and then sat and watched the candles burn for a while. The glowing menorah gave him something to stare at and helped him focus some of the thoughts that whirled around in his head about the things he had learned today. He’d worked with the STRIKE team for a while now, and he had tried his best to like them. The thought had occurred to him that he was treating them unfairly, or that he might be comparing them to the Howling Commandos, or that he had simply lost his touch as a commanding officer. But having put up with a day full of insults both spoken and implied, he wondered if there might be something else at work. 

Throughout the 1930s, as the newspapers and the radio had reported the rise of Adolf Hitler, Steve had heard people debating what sort of man he was. Some people admired him for his energy and the firm vision that he had for Germany and the world. Some had said that perhaps he was just the leader that Europe needed to pull it out of its tailspin and put the world back on a forward course again. 

Steve’s mother usually turned the radio off if she heard Hitler’s voice, and she refused to read his speeches when they were translated in the newspaper. “He’s getting important, Ma,” Steve said one day, shortly after his bar mitzvah, when his mother was washing dishes and he was drying them. “Don’t you want to learn more about him?” 

“Honey, I don’t need to learn any more than I already know,” Sarah replied. “He’s been giving speeches like that ever since you were too little to know, and it’s always the same thing. I know all I need to know about that man. He’s a bully, and he’s dangerous.” 

“But how do you know?” Steve asked. “You never read about him.” 

“He’s told me. All those speeches, all those years. He’s already told me who he is.” Sarah handed him another plate. “Be careful, that one’s nice. Don’t drop it. People tell you who they are all the time,” she went on. “It’s not that hard. When they tell you who they are, all you have to do is listen.” 

Well, it seemed that Rumlow and the rest of the team had just told Steve who they were. They were unpleasant bullies who hated anyone who didn’t fit the mold of a muscular Christian male, and SHIELD had helped to mold them. The one advantage that Steve could see for himself in this situation was that, although Rumlow and the others might not care much for Steve Rogers, they clearly all maintained a deep respect for Captain America. If he was going to get anything done while in command, he was going to have to be Captain America from the moment he arrived at work until the moment that he walked in the door of his own home. 

The candles burned in the menorah, slowly melting, vanishing before Steve’s eyes. He sat alone in his living room, waiting for his tasteless dinner to warm, watching the holiday melt away, and he couldn’t help thinking that something of himself was melting away, too.


	7. The Seventh Candle:  December 12, 2015

  1. **The Seventh Candle: December 12, 2015**



  

 

“Whoa,” the man said, looking around the gym. “This is amazing. State of the art. All the details. And this is just for you guys?” 

Steve smiled. “Well, it seems that we do quite a bit of our fighting in three dimensions,” he said. “It just seemed like a serious gym would benefit us.” 

His companion, a middle-aged former Olympic gymnast, nodded. “You really spared no expense here.” 

“Tony Stark spared no expense,” Steve corrected. “This has been in construction for a while, but that clusterfuck in Sokovia, well . . . guilt is a powerful motivator.” 

“Yeah, I’ll bet. Can I take a look around?” 

“Be my guest.”

The gymnast walked through all the stations, examining each piece of apparatus. He tested the springs on the floor and the vault, examined the high bar, the parallel bars, and the pommel horse, and glanced up at the rings. He also looked at the uneven bars and the balance beam. “I take it that those are for Black Widow and, what do you call her, Scarlet Witch. Or did any of the guys on the team want to take a crack at them?” 

Steve shrugged. “I’m not a competition gymnast, so there’s no reason not to at least learn a bit. Particularly balance beam. That’s always been something I’ve needed to work on, ever since I became, well . . .” he held out his arms. 

“Huh,” the gymnast said. “Not something I’d ever thought about before. You’re a bit tall for bars – Black Widow looks like she might be able to squeak it by, though. But I can definitely recommend a few good beam coaches, if you like.” 

“That’d be great,” Steve said with a smile. “Want to see the rest of the facilities?” 

“There’s more?” 

Steve laughed. “Oh, you have no idea what Tony Stark can produce when he puts his mind to it. There’s a combat gym down one level, and a ballet studio across the hall.” 

The gymnast’s eyebrows rocketed up his forehead. “A ballet studio? No shit.” 

“Natasha – Black Widow – she wanted it put in. Said she paid a steep price for her early ballet lessons, and she might as well keep up the skills.” 

The gymnast shook his head. “All set up like Round Lake in here. Wish our federation had a Tony Stark. The kinds of training we could do, especially with the girls. We might be able to produce someone like Frolova, or Boginskaya, or Podkopayeva.” 

“I have no idea who any of those ladies are, but I believe you,” Steve said.

The gymnast gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Yeah, I guess they’d be a bit before your time. Or after. Anyway, I got to watch both Boginskaya and Podkopayeva back in the nineties, and that was a treat, let me tell you. You know, if you wanted to, I bet we could work something out to rent out this place for a bit for some training camps, maybe host a competition. You guys might make back a bit of what Stark spent on this. What do you say?” 

Steve shrugged. “Let’s start with training my team first. There may be a few –“ 

An explosion shook the floor beneath their feet. A few moments later, a blast of red fire flashed up the stairwell and burst in a firework just outside the gym. 

“. . . kinks to work out first,” Steve finished. 

The gymnast nodded. He had gone very pale. “Yeah. I, uh, I see what you mean.” 

Steve went to the gym door, poked his head out, and listened. He could hear the faint sounds of an argument drifting up from the combat gym. “I think I might have to go,” he said. “Can we talk later about setting up a schedule?” 

“Oh, by all means,” the gymnast said. “Coaching the Avengers, that’s . . . that’s worth the weirdness. Go take care of your team. I have some calls to make.” 

Steve thanked him and hurried out to the stairwell.

  

 

By the time he got to the combat gym, the initial emergency seemed to be mostly over. Wanda was huddled in a corner, crying into Natasha’s shoulder, and Vision stood nearby, looking remarkably uncomfortable for an artificial life form who had no concept of shame or awkwardness. There was a smoking hole in the middle of his shirt, though Vision himself looked unharmed. There were scorch marks about ten feet up one of the gym walls, and Natasha looked more rumpled than usual. “What’s going on?” Steve asked. 

Before either Natasha or Vision could answer, Sam arrived, followed in short order by Colonel Rhodes. Wanda peeked out from Natasha’s embrace and saw the rest of her teammates standing around her. She let out a wail, and promptly buried her face again. Steve swiped a hand over his face. 

“Um, all right. Uh, Colonel, I left a very confused member of the 1996 men’s Olympic gymnastics team upstairs. Could you possibly run up and take care of him? Set up an appointment for us to sit down and talk about his coaching services, show him out, that sort of thing?” 

Rhodes glanced down at Wanda and nodded. “On it.” He left the room. 

Steve turned to Vision. “Are you all right? What happened?” 

Vision put on a puzzled frown, an expression that Steve thought looked oddly studied. “I am unharmed, Captain. I was in the middle of teaching Miss Maximoff to use her telekinesis and her skills with energy manipulation to levitate her own body weight. She became . . . emotional.” 

He stood still and offered no further commentary. After a moment, Steve nodded. “All right. Thank you. I think that lesson is probably over for the day. Would you . . . give us the room, please?” 

“Of course.” Vision nodded courteously, and walked out of the gym. 

“You want me to take off, Cap?” Sam asked. 

Steve shook his head. “No. Just . . . can you be available, but not . . . ?” 

Sam smiled. “Yeah, I understand. You do what you need.” He squatted down a few feet away from Wanda and Natasha, ready to come closer if he were invited, but not making any more moves on his own. 

Steve knelt down next to Wanda. “Hey,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “It’s over now. Rhodes and Vision are gone. Want to tell me what happened?” 

Wanda shook her head. “It’s stupid.” 

“Not if it left you like this.” 

“But it is stupid.” Wanda took a deep breath. “I was practicing, and I . . . I stopped concentrating. It’s so dark, and I miss my brother, and . . . it just happened.” 

Steve swallowed. “Like a wave just crashes over you when you least expect it.” 

Wanda looked at him as if he had just grown another head. “You know.” 

“What it’s like to miss someone? We all do.” Steve reconsidered that thought. “Well, maybe not Vision. But everybody else. I do. Sam does.” 

“I do,” Natasha said softly. 

Wanda put her head back on Natasha’s shoulder. “It feels like the sun is never going to come up again.” 

Sam inched forward. “Wanda, what would you like best right now?” he asked. “Doesn’t matter if it’s realistic or not. What’s something that you really want?” 

Wanda screwed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. In a very tiny voice, she choked out, “I want to be nine years old again and have Hanukkah with my family. Like it was before the bomb fell.” 

Steve sat back on his heels for a moment. He had to admit that it was a pretty good wish, one that he would happily accept for himself. Sam blew out a breath, and even Natasha flashed a soft little smile. An idea struck Steve. 

“I can’t make you a kid again, and I can’t bring your family back. But what if we all had a Hanukkah party here, tonight?” 

Wanda looked up, puzzled, but vaguely hopeful. “Here? I thought you were going into the city, to that shul you like.” 

Steve shrugged. “I’d been thinking about it. You could come along, if you wanted. I’m sure Cantor Debbie would love to see you.” 

“I’m not . . . no.” 

“Then how about here? We’ve got some time today. We could put something together. I have a little menorah, and I have candles for it.” 

“You wouldn’t mind?” Wanda looked much more animated now. 

“Of course not,” Steve said, with a little laugh. “You think you’re the only one here who’s ever felt lonely and missed family over a holiday? Look, we’re a team. If we can’t take care of each other, then we shouldn’t be a team. So, team-building exercise. We have, oh, six hours to put together a nice holiday.” 

Sam grinned broadly. “A Very Avengers Hanukkah?” 

“You got it.” Steve rose to his feet. “Okay. Wanda, Nat, you go get cleaned up. Sam, round up the others. Meeting in the briefing room in, let’s say twenty minutes. We’re going to do this thing.” 

 

 

Twenty minutes later, Steve looked over his list of tasks to be accomplished, and his assembled troops. Between Natasha, Wanda, Sam, Rhodes, and Vision, he was pretty sure they could pull this together. “Okay, folks, there’s a list of jobs here,” he said. “We need to divide them all up. First there’s a grocery run. We have to make latkes, we need to get this room set up for a party, and we should have music.” 

“I’ll look for music,” Wanda said. 

“I have never cooked latkes,” Vision said. “Nor have I ever eaten them. Or anything else, for that matter. But I would like to learn.” 

Rhodes smiled. “I can show you that. They’re just potato pancakes, right, Cap?” 

“Yeah. With onions.” 

Rhodes gave a crisp nod. “Shouldn’t be too hard. Vision and I will muddle through them.” 

Natasha smiled. “Cap, how about if you and Sam do the grocery shopping? I have a little agenda of my own.”

  

 

Steve thoroughly enjoyed the grocery run. Even after several years of having lived in the future, he still loved supermarkets, with their big, bright aisles full of every kind of food there was, as well as lots of things that Steve had never heard of, and the carts that you could fill with as much of anything as you wanted. He selected potatoes and onions and a few large jugs of cooking oil, while Sam chose doughnuts from the bakery. Steve discovered that there was a little display of Hanukkah decorations, and added paper dishes and napkins, a bag of wooden dreidels, and several bags of foil-covered chocolate coins to the cart. There was applesauce and sour cream, small candies for playing dreidel with, and even herring in jars with all sorts of sauces. 

Sam left Steve to decide among mustard sauce, tomato sauce, dill sauce, and all the rest of the options. When he returned to the cart, he had several bottles of juice, soda, and liquor, and an orange. “I don’t know if it’s traditional,” he said, “but I love it when there’s a good bowl of punch at a party. Hey, what about some potato chips? They’re fried, right, so they’d fit right in.” 

When they brought their haul back to the Avengers facility, Vision and Rhodes had the kitchen all ready to start cooking. Sam went home to get a punch bowl and cups, and Steve went in search of Wanda. He found her in the building’s control room, programming a playlist into the sound system. “Where’s Natasha?” he asked. 

Wanda shrugged. “She left just after you did. She said she had some errands to run, and to tell you that she was going to be mysterious about it.” 

“Um, okay,” Steve said. “That sounds like Natasha. Best thing to do is trust her, I guess. How are you doing?” 

Wanda grinned. “I hope you like Sokovian music.” 

“I hope I do, too.” 

He left her to her task and went to clean the wax dribbles from the previous six nights off of his menorah.

 

 

At sunset, the party was nearly ready. The briefing room table was now covered with a nice paper tablecloth, and plates of food, serving dishes, and holiday-themed paper plates, cups and napkins sat ready to go. Rhodes had suggested gift bags, and had left Vision to fry latkes while everyone else stuffed little pouches with dreidels, chocolate coins, and small candies. At the last minute, an idea had struck Steve, and he went home to get the pickle jar where he kept small change. Scattered over the table, it made a lovely decoration. Steve set out his menorah and enough candles for the seventh night. 

Sam brought the punch bowl out from the kitchen, and Vision followed, with cups on a tray. 

“Where’s Natasha?” he asked. “Party’s nearly ready.” 

Just then, a whirring sound outside and a strong downdraft heralded the landing of a Quinjet.   After a few moments, presumably occupied with post-flight checks, Vision announced that the aircraft hangar doors had opened, and that the Quinjet was taxiing inside. Presently, Natasha appeared at the briefing room door, loaded down with shopping bags of varying sizes. She took in the Avengers’ looks of astonishment and shrugged. 

“You were so busy with the party that you forgot about presents,” she said. “And it turns out that Amazon offers you even better discounts if you fly out to their warehouse and pick up your order in person.” 

“I’m going to try that,” Sam said. “And I’m going to bet you a big bottle of something highly alcoholic that it only works for you.” 

“Then it’s a good thing that I got the presents,” Natasha replied. “Also, Tony and Pepper send their holiday best from their vacation rental on a top secret tropical island, which I’m totally not supposed to know is St. John. They had some specific present recommendations as well.” 

Rhodes laughed. “That’s Tony for you,” he said. “I’ll call him in a bit so we can all say hi from our party.” 

“Excellent,” Steve said. “So let’s light the candles and get the party going. Wanda, would you like to do the honors?” 

Wanda blushed, but stepped up and struck the match. As she lit the candles, and their growing light made her skin glow, Steve smiled. He was about to say the traditional blessings, but another idea struck him instead. 

“Usually there are blessings to say here,” he said. “But tonight, I’d rather be thankful that all of us are here. We don’t have much family of our own, and some of us don’t have any family, so I’m glad that we can all come together. Our job is to take care of the world, but we can’t do that unless we take care of each other first. The letters on the dreidel remind us that a great miracle happened there. Well, look at this party. This morning, we didn’t even have a thought of a party, and now it’s here. A great miracle happened here, and it’s all of you. Happy Hanukkah.” 

Wanda threw her arms around Steve as the rest of them cried, “Happy Hanukkah!” Vision went to the kitchen and returned with a large platter piled high with steaming latkes. Sam started Wanda’s playlist, and the Avengers began eating and drinking and admiring the decorations. 

Natasha smiled to see the chocolate coins in the gift pouches. “Are these the cheap ones that are all weird and waxy on the inside?” she asked. 

Steve swallowed a mouthful of Sam’s excellent rum punch. “Of course,” he said. “It’s tradition, and tradition is important. Those are the best cheap, horrible, waxy chocolate coins I could find.” 

“Good.” Natasha picked the foil on one of her chocolate coins apart and popped it in her mouth. When she had eaten it, she led Steve over to the corner where all of her shopping bags sat. “Be a mensch and help me hand these out,” she said. “Do not touch that one, on pain of . . . pain,” she added, pointing at a small green bag. 

“Yes, ma’am.” Steve gave her a military-perfect salute, and helped her distribute gifts to the Avengers. Each one made the recipient smile or laugh, although Steve especially enjoyed watching Wanda open a set of instruction books and simple music for guitar. He had no idea where she had acquired a guitar, but she had taken to strumming it when she felt lonely and missed her brother. Steve had a vague idea that Pietro might have played a little, but he wasn’t entirely sure why he thought that. But Wanda had turned out to have some talent for chords, and seemed delighted at the books, which included a volume of Sokovian folk songs. 

Finally, when all the presents had been given out, Natasha picked up the green bag and handed it to Steve. “This is actually from Tony,” she said. “He told me to tell you that if you think it’s a bit young for you, to remember that you’re well over ninety years old, and everyone is entitled to a second childhood.” 

Intrigued, Steve opened the bag and pulled out a hardcover children’s book, clearly meant for someone about six or seven years old. The cover bore an exuberant, full-color illustration of soldiers running around in a panic while a man who looked like he had just stepped out of a Sholem Aleichem story flipped head over heels. A menorah with a suspiciously brown and lumpy base flew through the air. As he looked, the scene began to come together in Steve’s mind, blended with a memory of one bitterly cold night in Austria. The title of the book was _Hershel and the Exploding Potato Menorah_ , and the author was Jason Dugan. 

Steve could feel a slow smile spreading over his face as he opened the book and read Jason Dugan’s short introduction. In it, Dugan described hearing stories told by his wife, Danielle Shapiro, and his grandfather . . . Timothy Dugan. He had written this book for his two small interfaith children, wanting to combine the best of the stories that both of their families had to offer. 

Steve paged through the book, skimming the simple story of Hershel of Ostropol being drafted into the Czar’s army, being sent to fight the enemy, making a menorah out of a potato on a cold winter night, slipping on the potato, and causing a fire that ruined all the enemy’s plans. The illustrations were so lively and comical that Steve found himself laughing even as a few tears leaked out of his eyes. 

“Look at that,” he said softly. “We’ve been turned into a Hershel Ostropoler story. Bucky would have loved that.” 

Natasha put her arm around him. “Maybe we’re not family,” she said. “But we can still take care of each other.” 

Steve looked up and saw Wanda teaching Vision some kind of presumably Sokovian folk dance step, while Sam and Rhodes competed to see who could make a dreidel perform the most elaborate spinning flips. Latkes lay waiting to be smothered in applesauce and eaten, potato chip crumbs and chocolate coin wrappers mingled with the change on the table, and the menorah cast its glow over everything, missing only one candle to be complete. “Yeah,” Steve said. “Nothing like a good party to turn a team into something special.” 

Natasha kissed him on the cheek. “Happy Hanukkah, Steve,” she said, and went to help herself to more latkes and punch.


	8. The Eighth Candle:  December 31, 2016

  1. **The Eighth Candle: December 31, 2016**



  

 

The door opened, and Steve heard the soft, oddly hesitant tread that had become one of his favorite sounds to hear in the evening. “In the kitchen!” he called. 

A moment later, Bucky appeared in the doorway, and Steve felt warm all over. Bucky was quieter than Steve remembered him being, and he still seemed hesitant about going anywhere in the house where he had lived with Steve since Passover, but when he smiled, it still went straight to Steve’s heart. “How was work?” Steve asked. 

Bucky shrugged. “There was this big old golden retriever named Elner. She’d been rolling in something, and she just stunk the joint out. Her owner said she hated baths, but you know, I got her in the tub, and she was gentle as could be.” 

“Who knew you’d turn out to be so good at dog grooming?” 

“Who knew that someone could make a business out of washing people’s dogs and gussying them up?” Bucky said with a little chuckle. “I guess if people are willing to pay for it, no shame in selling it.” 

“Your father used to say that,” Steve observed. 

Bucky nodded thoughtfully. “It’s not that complicated, you know. It’s just a poor, dumb animal hauled into a strange, noisy place where people are doing things to it. You just have to let them know that they’re safe and in good hands. Anyone could do it.” 

Steve shrugged. “Clearly, not as well as you.” 

That wrung a smile out of Bucky. “Need help with anything?” 

“I haven’t even thought about tonight,” Steve confessed. “I spent the morning training Wanda in combat, and there were a few calls that took up some time, and I haven’t even cleaned out the menorah, and don’t even ask about dinner.” 

Bucky walked over and leaned against Steve’s side. Steve recognized his cue, stopped talking, and put his arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky’s VA therapist, a no-nonsense woman named Ann who had served in the first Gulf War, had decided that Bucky needed regular experiences of gentle touch to re-acclimate himself to thinking like a person instead of a weapon. The dogs he bathed at the groomer’s allowed this during the day when Steve was off at the Avengers compound, but in the evening, gentle touch was Steve’s job. He liked it more than he felt he should, but he certainly wasn’t going to mention that where it might get back to Ann. It was supposed to be strictly therapeutic, after all. 

Still, he enjoyed the opportunity to hold Bucky close, to feel Bucky pressed warm and close against his side. All too soon, Bucky broke the embrace. “I’ll deal with the menorah,” he said. “You order pizza. We’ll talk about the calls over dinner.”

  

 

The first phone call had been the simpler of the two, but arguably the more important one. Bernie Rosenthal, Bucky’s lawyer, had called Steve to inform him that she had secured a date for one of the endless series of hearings being held about Bucky’s experiences with HYDRA, and that she would be calling him to give a deposition at one of those hearings. Bernie had come with the enthusiastic approval of Clint Barton, and both Bucky and Steve had liked her from the moment they met her. Steve trusted that Bucky was in good hands with Bernie, and had agreed to the deposition whenever she wanted to hold it. 

The second call had been from Pepper Potts, asking if she could drop by the next day with a Hanukkah gift for them from Tony. “I know tomorrow is New Year’s Eve,” she said, “and I understand if you have plans. But Tony thought that this gift might need a day or so to settle, and since everything’s closed up for New Year’s . . .” 

“I think it might be related to your arm,” Steve told Bucky. “Tony’s been pretty secretive the last few times that I’ve talked to him, but I’m pretty sure he and Pepper have something cooking.” 

Bucky nodded, not looking up from where he was running hot water over the menorah to melt the evening’s wax dribbles, using his metal arm so that the water could be hotter than a flesh arm could stand. “I guess tomorrow’s as good as any day,” he said. “Do we need to go anywhere?” 

“Pepper said she and Dr. Meyerovitz could come here.” 

“Okay.” Bucky took a deep breath. “I’ll be ready for them.” He turned the water off and dried the menorah, then placed his metal hand on the back of Steve’s neck so that Steve could feel the warmth from the hot water. Steve smiled as he felt some of the day’s tension drain from his shoulders.

  

 

The next morning dawned cold and crisp. There had been a light dusting of snow overnight, but not so much that it prevented Pepper driving up in a shiny black SUV with brass trimmings just as Steve and Bucky were finishing breakfast. “They’re here!” Steve called. 

Bucky nodded. “I’ll be in my room,” he said, and headed to the former guest room. Steve’s stomach gave a little spasm of sympathy. Bucky wasn’t fond of having his metal arm serviced, but he had endured several meetings with Dr. Evelyn Meyerovitz of Stark Industries as she painstakingly examined the hardware, took notes, and on one memorable occasion, had disarmed a few explosive charges she had discovered near his elbow. It helped that Dr. Meyerovitz was a doctor of engineering rather than medicine, and had never needed to develop a bedside manner. Instead, she worked quickly and efficiently, only talking to Bucky when she needed him to move something, allowing Steve to distract Bucky with conversation.

Today, when Steve went out on the porch to greet their visitors, Pepper and Dr. Meyerovitz were unloading a sizeable box from the back of the SUV. Steve ran out to them. “Can I help you with that?” 

Dr. Meyerovitz shook her head. “Thanks, but no. This doesn’t weigh very much at all. Which is kind of the point.” 

“It’s the new arm,” Pepper said. “If everyone’s ready, we can try this out, and if you like it, you can keep it. If something doesn’t work, we can take it back and fix it.” 

Steve sucked in a frosty breath of air. Dr. Meyerovitz had talked about making a full replacement for Bucky’s worn-down and ill-maintained prosthesis, but Steve hadn’t quite believed that something like that was actually possible. “That’s amazing,” he said. “I’ll let Bucky know.” 

Inside, he took his guests’ coats and hung them up, and then went and knocked on Bucky’s door. “They’re here,” he said, stepping just inside the room. 

Bucky sat on the bed, his shirt already off. As usual, Steve found his attention shifting back and forth between Bucky’s broad, powerful chest and the thick scar tissue that surrounded his arm. “What do they need me to do?” Bucky asked. 

Steve smiled. “They’ve brought a new arm for you to try out. And maybe keep.” 

Bucky sat up straight, suddenly interested. “I didn’t realize the doc was so far along.” 

“I didn’t, either. But here she is. Are you ready?” 

Bucky pressed his lips together, as he’d always done when trying to bolster his courage. “I guess,” he said. “I don’t really know. But this is it, right? What we’ve been trying for. Might as well.” 

Steve nodded. “All right. You lie down, and I’ll go get them.”

  

 

“So this has a power assist that comes from a miniature arc reactor,” Dr. Meyerovitz said a short time later, opening a panel near the top of the arm. “Same sort of thing that Stark has in his suits. It won’t hurt you, and you’ll be in full control. This will just make the heavy lifting easier. A bit like power steering.” 

Bucky looked puzzled. “Like in a tank recovery vehicle?” 

“It’s in almost all cars now,” Pepper said. “Hard to find one without it.” 

“Sweet.” 

“You’ve also got some temperature regulation,” Dr. Meyerovitz went on. “I’ve put in a system of heat channels to vent the arm through this porous layer on the surface, which I hope will give it a relatively natural warmth.” 

Bucky ran his flesh hand over the arm. “I like the skin coating.” 

Pepper and Dr. Meyerovitz both burst out laughing. “That’s a commercial product, believe it or not,” Dr. Meyerovitz said. 

“Just don’t ask what it’s normally used for,” Pepper added. 

Bucky snorted, and a moment later, it struck Steve what they were referring to. He could feel the hot blush spreading up his face. He knew that his skin was fair enough that everyone in the room could see it, which made the blush even deeper. 

Bucky smiled at Steve. “All right,” he said. “With that introduction, I’m totally ready. Let’s do this thing.” He scooted over to the far side of the bed, fluffed his pillow, and lay down, extending his metal arm. Steve pulled up two chairs next to him, and he and Pepper sat down. Steve took Bucky’s flesh hand, and Pepper turned his head to look at them rather than at Dr. Meyerovitz laying out her tools on a towel laid over the bedspread.

 

 

It turned out to be good that Pepper and Dr. Meyerovitz had arrived as early as they had. The process of removing Bucky’s old HYDRA arm and installing the new one took several hours of delicate, painstaking work. Every hour or so, Bucky would start to shake and clench his teeth. Then they would take a break, and Dr. Meyerovitz would roll her shoulders and flex her hands. Around midday, they broke for lunch, and Steve fed Bucky a tuna sandwich before eating his own food. As evening fell, Dr. Meyerovitz closed the last of the gaps between the arm and what was left of Bucky’s shoulder. 

“It’s looking pretty good there, Buck,” Steve said. 

Dr. Meyerovitz sat up straight on the bed and brushed some hair out of her face. “That’s the major installation done,” she said. “Let’s see if it works. Bucky, can you sit up for me?” 

Slowly, Bucky raised himself to a sitting position and looked down at his arms. “That’s a good match,” he said, his voice thick. “It looks . . . almost real. It’s hard to believe.” 

Steve clasped his shoulder. The effect really was startling. 

Dr. Meyerovitz nodded. “Let’s test it and see how it works. How does it feel? Any pain?” 

Bucky frowned. “A little tingly, but that’s fading.” 

“A good sign. Can you raise it from the shoulder? Raise your hand up over your head, like a gymnast.” 

Bucky did as she asked. “Feels good. It’s lighter than the other one.” 

Dr. Meyerovitz smiled. “Well, I’m a better engineer than whoever built this. I’ve also got better materials, and there aren’t any weapon pods to weigh it down. Okay, bring the arm down. Flex the elbow. Good. And the wrist. Can you circle your hand? Excellent. Let’s try the fingers.” 

She led Bucky through tests of each joint, then asked him to close his eyes as she stroked different parts of the arm with her fingers and a brush, poked him with a stylus, and tested a hot cup of tea and an ice cube that Pepper brought from the kitchen. “Sensory function isn’t a hundred percent,” she said, frowning a little, “but it’s still much better than what you had before. What do you think?” 

Bucky wiggled and flexed his arm. “I like it. It feels . . . I don’t know. It’s been so long. Was this what having my real arm was like?” 

Steve choked, and Pepper squeezed his hand. Dr. Meyerovitz smiled. “I should know? It’s your arm. What do you say? Anything you want me to adjust now? Want to keep it?”

Bucky nodded. “This is good. Take the old one away. I don’t want to look at it any more.” 

“Great.” 

Pepper packed the old arm into the box while Dr. Meyerovitz put her tools away. 

“If it’s okay, I’ll come back in a few days and see how that’s working,” Dr. Meyerovitz said. “I’ll smooth out any little bugs, but other than that, you shouldn’t need a tune-up for about a year or so. But call me if you think you need anything sooner.” 

“Thank you,” Bucky said. 

Steve rose to his feet. “How much do we owe you?” he asked. “I can write you a check.” 

Pepper smiled. “Don’t worry about it. This is Tony’s Hanukkah gift to both of you.” 

Both Steve and Bucky stared at her. “Really?” Steve choked out. “He’d give so much?” 

“I thought he didn’t even want to look at me,” Bucky said. 

Pepper sighed. “He’s still working through a lot of feelings,” she admitted. “And he won’t admit that he even has these feelings, which of course makes it that much more difficult. But he’s getting there. He . . . I think . . . he doesn’t blame you, Bucky, but I think he’s still more scared of you than he’ll admit. But he’s getting there.” 

Bucky nodded. “I understand. Tell him thank you, please. I’ll tell him myself whenever he wants.” 

Steve looked out the window. “It’s getting dark already,” he said. “Will you stay for coffee? We can light the menorah.” 

Dr. Meyerovitz smiled. “I’d like that,” she said. “Bucky, why don’t you do it? We can test out your fine motor control.” 

Steve got the coffee started, and put out some cookies on a plate. He filled the menorah with candles, one candle in each branch, for the last night of Hanukkah. When everything was ready, Bucky struck a match. Steve chanted the blessings and watched as Bucky lit candle after candle, his new arm never wavering even when he maneuvered the shammash candle back into its holder. The candles shone, and their light reflected off of tired, triumphant faces, making their smiles glow. 

All too soon, Pepper and Dr. Meyerovitz swallowed the last of their coffee and went to pack the car. “Tony and I are making appearances at a couple of New Year’s parties,” Pepper explained. “I have to get Evelyn home and then get dressed. I’ll call you in a few days.” 

Steve waved goodbye while holding Bucky’s new hand. As Dr. Meyerovitz had promised, it was warm, almost like flesh and blood.

 

 

Both Bucky and Steve had wanted a quiet New Year’s at home, and they had not planned any parties. Unexpectedly tired after the events of the day, they agreed to go to bed well before midnight. “The year will change without us,” Steve said. 

“It’s certainly done that often enough,” Bucky agreed, with a lopsided smile. He turned to go to his room. “Good night. See you next year.” 

Steve curled up in his own bed and let himself drift off to sleep.

 

 

_He raced through a city that crumbled away beneath his feet. All around him, soldiers were shooting, and landmines exploded at his feet. He dodged and wove through the chaos, searching frantically for something that he couldn’t remember. He rounded a corner and saw Bucky shooting at an enormous monster made of metal and twisted, burned flesh. Steve ran towards Bucky, but the distance between them grew longer with every step that he took. The monster turned and grinned at them, its flesh melting and shifting until it turned into a grotesque parody of Brock Rumlow’s face. It raised its arm, and an enormous explosion shattered the ground. Steve saw Bucky fly off into the distance, and he was falling through empty space that was so cold that his breath burned in his chest, and he screamed for Bucky_

and Bucky was there, sitting on the bed with him, holding Steve firmly against his chest, humming softly. Ordnance blasted, and the room lit up, and Steve cried out and clutched at Bucky’s shirt. Bucky tightened his embrace, cradling Steve’s head in his hand. 

“It’s okay,” he said. “Shh, shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. It’s fireworks. For New Year’s.” 

Steve couldn’t speak, but let out a ragged little moan. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky murmured. “They scared me, too.” 

Another explosion shattered the air and lit up the night. Steve flinched, and Bucky ducked his head away from the window. “Light,” he said. “We need some light. Careful with your eyes, Steve.” 

He reached out and turned on the bedside lamp. Steve could see the familiar confines of his bedroom, the blankets twisted around his body, and the framed photo of himself and Bucky before the war sitting on the night table. He laid his head on Bucky’s shoulder and took deep, gasping breaths as Bucky stroked his hair. Eventually, he raised his hand and placed it on Bucky’s chest, where he could feel the strong heartbeat, fast and fluttering with alarm. 

They sat together for a while, rocking slowly back and forth, and Steve felt Bucky’s heartbeat slow even as his own breathing evened out. But even after the fit had passed, leaving him limp and exhausted, Bucky did not let him go. He shifted to hold Steve more comfortably and continued to sway. Steve blinked, and it occurred to him that there hadn’t been any explosions for a few minutes. “I think the fireworks are over now,” he said. 

Bucky nodded, and kept rocking. 

A wave of guilt washed over Steve. Bucky had been through enough today, and he didn’t need to deal with Steve’s weakness on top of that. “You don’t have to . . . if you don’t want to,” Steve faltered. 

“I do want to,” Bucky replied. “I think . . . I can’t explain this well. I don’t think I have all the words. When you’re sad, or scared, or hurt, it makes me hurt, too. Taking care of you makes me feel better.” 

“Oh. Is that . . . normal?” 

“I’ve talked to Ann about it,” Bucky said. “She doesn’t think it’s weird. Do you mind it?” 

“No. It’s . . . I like it. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry.” 

Bucky shifted Steve in his arms so that he could look at Steve, and Steve saw something soft and private shining in Bucky’s eyes. An uncertain half-smile flitted across Bucky’s face. “Can I . . .” 

He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss onto Steve’s forehead. The touch burned through Steve, and it felt as though a door had opened. Steve took a breath that shuddered through his body. 

“I can’t remember,” Bucky said. “Whether we ever did that. Before. I wanted it. I know that. But I can’t remember.” 

Steve swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “We didn’t. I wish we had, but we didn’t. I didn’t know if – and then you – I thought there would never be another chance, after the ice. I didn’t want to think about it. I tried not to think about it.” He choked, and Bucky held him close, his new fingers combing through Steve’s hair. 

“We have another chance now,” he said. “Should we – can we . . . ?” 

“Yes.” Steve slid his arms around Bucky, and Bucky leaned down to kiss him again, on the mouth. His lips were warm and gentle against Steve’s, and they were closer than they had ever been. It seemed that a knot that had been tied deep inside Steve for as long as he could remember had finally come loose. He lost himself in the sensation of soft lips and mingled breath for a while. 

Presently, Bucky pulled away and smiled at Steve. “That feels . . . clearer,” he said. “I’m glad we agree.” He sighed and eased Steve back onto the pillows. “It’s – I’m – I don’t think I’m finished sleeping. Can we maybe . . . pick this up in the morning?” 

Steve nodded. His own eyes were sliding shut again, but he didn’t want the luminous warmth of the moment to fade just yet. “Stay with me,” he said. 

“Okay.” Bucky slid beneath the covers, and Steve took Bucky in his arms. Bucky reached up and turned the light off. “It’s after midnight,” he said. “Happy New Year to us.” 

Steve smiled sleepily and pressed his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck. “A great miracle happened here,” he murmured. Bucky’s arms wrapped around him, and he drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythm of Bucky’s breath.

 

 

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story! I hope that the past eight days, whether or not you celebrated them as Hanukkah, have been full of light and good things. If we don’t see each other before then, I wish you a lovely New Year, full of peace, good, blessing, sustenance, and health.


End file.
